


Teach Me Your Ways

by airebellah



Series: Teach Me Your Ways [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Khuzdul, Language Barrier, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Overprotective Thorin, POV Thorin, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Protective Thorin, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Thorin Broods, Thorin Feels, Thorin Is an Idiot, Thorin is a Softie, Thorin-centric, Uncle Thorin, demisexual!thorin, esl!thorin, virgin!Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 63,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin sat in a bookstore reading to his nephews. He struggled to read the foreign English text, but he would do anything to please his nephews. Including humiliating himself in front of a cute man with a small boy of his own.</p><p>
  <i>Thorin Durin, forced from his home in war-torn Erebor, struggles to adapt to England’s language and customs. Bilbo offers to help, and amongst many a cultural confusion, their relationship quickly grows beyond simple language lessons.<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a hugeee thing for modern au's with ESL Thorin. Apparently that love was too much, and I caved and wrote my own fic.  
> Since I'm leaving tomorrow on vacation, I wanted to post this before I left, so I apologize for any errors/poor writing.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy :)

Thorin had no choice but to follow as his nephews pulled him eagerly down the street. At ages seven and four respectively, Fíli and Kíli had endless amounts of energy with which their uncle struggled to keep up. Each child held onto one of Thorin’s hands, though they otherwise ignored him as they babbled excitedly amongst themselves.

Fíli came to an abrupt stop before darting towards a shop. He plastered his body against the window, staring inside reverently.

“Uncle, can we go in?” he asked, breath fogging up the window with each word. “Please, Uncle, please?”

As if Fíli wasn’t enough, Kíli immediately turned his doe-wide chocolate eyes on Thorin, lip jutting out in an irresistible pout for good measure. “Please Uncle?” he asked forlornly, as though his life was one full of denial.

Thorin was no match against the puppy eyes. He was a mere mortal, after all.

At their uncle’s exasperated nod, the boys ran ahead, laughing and cheering in what was most likely a previously quiet bookstore. Thorin followed at a much more sedate pace, though he was quick to glare at any who dared give the boys a nasty look.

In all honesty, it bothered Thorin how his nephews spoke in English as if it were so natural to them. He understood, to an extent, that they would naturally adapt to England’s culture and language. He did not have to like it, though.

His family had fled to this country seeking asylum. Their homeland Erebor, a grand and beautiful country, had been taken over by rebel guerillas. The fighters claimed to fight for freedom from the oppressive regime under which they were ruled, though that façade quickly faded. They turned on innocent civilians, revealing themselves as warmongers and profiteers, and nothing more.

The country was quite small, so it had been relatively easy for the extremists to gain control. And isolated as Erebor was, no aid came. Surrounding countries turned away anyone who did not have familial ties to their land. That had left Thorin, his heavily pregnant sister Dís, and Dís’ toddler Fíli smuggling from country to country. It had not been easy, and Dís’ delivery date had approached all too soon. Desperate, they smuggled onto a ferry to the water locked country. Though all the odds had been against them – Dís had been endlessly stressed, sleep deprived, and malnourished for the better part of a year – Kíli was born a happy, healthy baby.

Apparently being born within the border was enough for Kíli to gain citizenship.* After that, they had decided to stay permanently. It was not easy, but they had made it work.

Dís had picked up the language here quite easily. That was not to negate the effort she put in, of course. No, Thorin knew she had worked very hard to learn English.

Thorin, on the other hand, did not have such patience. He had devoted himself to working immediately, taking any job he could find. He learned only words and phrases necessary for his tasks. Between working 15-hour days and coming home to a newborn and a toddler, Thorin had not really bothered to dedicate himself to learning like Dís had. He had memorized the alphabet and common greetings, but beyond that, he still struggled.

Dís’ way of helping him was having the boys speak in English. He knew she only wanted to help, but it bothered him nevertheless. Fíli barely had his Ereborian accent anymore, and Kíli none at all. He wanted his boys raised proud of their culture, fluent in Khuzdul, and dedicated to their traditions. Some days he feared they would stop caring about their roots altogether, ignorant to anything but Western culture.

“Uncle, Uncle!”

Fíli and Kíli all but smashing into his legs forced Thorin from his thoughts. Together they held up a thin hard cover book, waving it under their uncle’s nose eagerly.

“Will you read to us?”

“Please, please read to us!”

Thorin pursed his lips, looking from one quivering pout to the next. Begrudgingly, he picked up the book. Taking this as consent, the boys cheered excitedly and ran to a bright yellow table surrounded by red chairs. Fíli pulled out one chair and faced it away from the table, then joined his brother on the floor in front of it.

Thorin slowly made his way over, eyes perusing the cover. There was a (frankly repellant, in Thorin’s opinion) insect taking up the entire page. Its green body curved upwards, covered in little black lines meant to resemble thin spikes. At one end was a small red head with huge green eyes.

Thorin collapsed into the too-small chair with a resigned groan. Dís insisted reading children’s books was a great way to pick up a language. She attributed a lot of her learning to this method. Thorin was  _ not  _ convinced. He read to the boys all the time, practically every night – at least, every night he was not working – and he still struggled.

He was beginning to think it was hopeless. Maybe he was just too old to start learning a language from scratch.

Kíli’s impatient shouts urged Thorin to start the book, and he flipped open to the first page. Just as he deciphered the words confidently enough to speak aloud, Fíli cried out indignantly.

“Uncle, you skipped the title!”

“The title is the best part,” Kíli insisted.

He fixed his nephews with a glare, but they were completely unfazed. Closing the book once more, Thorin’s eyes danced over the strange creature before finding the text at the top corner. He stared for a few minutes, lips moving silently as he worked out the words. Despite all their eagerness, his nephews were always blessedly patient when Thorin struggled over foreign letters.

“The hungry, hungry…caterpillar,” he finally said. The words forced his tongue to contort unnaturally, and he did not have to understand English well to know his pronunciation was completely wrong. His audience, luckily, was unfazed.

Reading was slow going, but his nephews seemed more invested in the folding pictures than anything else.

The story had an easy pattern – it involved an increasing amount of food on every day of the week. Thorin could count in English, but the days of the week were a bit harder for him. Before he turned each page, he tried to remember what day came next. He had only gotten a couple correct thus far, and his patience was wearing thin. His grip on the book was tight enough to turn his fingers white, but he refused to ruin his nephews’ fun.

“– But he was still hungry!” Thorin narrated. The repetition of this line helped Thorin master his pronunciation, and he said it with much more confidence than the rest of the words.

A laugh somewhere to his left had Thorin freezing, any aforementioned assurance being replaced with a hot flash of anger. As a refugee in a foreign country, Thorin was not exactly unused to mocking. He knew his thick long hair and beard – both traditional to his people – marked him as alien even without him having to speak. It didn’t make it any easier to bear, though.

Thorin steeled himself, lips pursed and eyes hardened to a glare before he turned to the offender. A small boy stood a few feet away, looking over at Thorin and his nephews with poorly concealed longing. He had bright blue eyes and a mop of dark curls. Holding his hand was a man, most likely his father, though their only similarity was the curliness of their hair. The man gestured in their direction before giving his son a small, encouraging push. The boy toddled over, eyes wide and lip wedged firmly between his teeth. Once in front of Fíli and Kíli, he stuttered something quietly. The boys responded happily, patting the small space between them. A smile spread across the dark-haired boy’s face, and soon he too was looking up expectantly.

The boy’s father pulled up a chair, though his smaller stature meant he looked far less ridiculous in the miniature furniture.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the newcomer said with an easy smile. The smile lit up his warm hazel eyes, and Thorin felt his ears heat a little at the man’s attractiveness. “This is my cousin’s favourite,” he explained.

Thorin merely grunted and turned back to the book. This time, however, he was much more nervous to start reading. He was not exactly fond of humiliating himself in front of handsome strangers.

He repeated the page he had just read, enunciating extra carefully. It made his struggle more apparent, but better than slur incoherently.

“On Thur-Thursday he ate –” Thorin cut off, quietly cursing himself. He struggled with the strange, seemingly arbitrary rules English had. He knew the  _ h _ meant something, changed the pronunciation, but he couldn’t remember how.

“Thursday,” came a whisper in his ear. Thorin’s head whipped up as he fixed the man with a glare. The stranger had smiled at Thorin, his hazel eyes far too expressive in their beguiling sincerity. But seeing the aggravated look he now received, the man cleared his throat and looked down, tugging at his collar sheepishly.

Thorin’s chest tightened with guilt. Anger was an ingrained reaction to any correction to his English, yet the stranger had not said it mockingly. In fact, he genuinely seemed to want to help. But Thorin pushed the feeling away and returned to reading, keeping the correction in mind.

“On  _ Th _ ursday, he ate t- _ th _ rough four strawberries, but he was still hungry.”

The soft sound was hard for him to manage; holding his tongue lightly between his teeth to enunciate was a foreign feeling. He repeated the  _ th _ sound in his head even as he flipped the pictures open, trying to imprint it in his memory.

Seeing the chewed-up strawberries, the little boy burst into peals of laughter, soon followed by Fíli and Kíli. A chuckle came from the man beside him, and Thorin glanced over, surprised to find an adult entertained by a simple picture book. But it was soon clear the picture was not what he found funny – the man’s nose scrunched up endearingly as he laughed, eyes focused solely on his young cousin, not the book. The hazel orbs were bright with happiness and love even while the stranger seemed oddly surprised. Thorin turned away, feeling as though he had intruded on intimate family affection.

The book soon finished; though Thorin had started off wishing it to be over, now he felt a bit remorseful. He hated to admit it – it was ridiculous, so the man was a bit cute, it meant nothing. It could mean nothing.

As if to reinforce this idea, the shorter man stood and went over to his small companion. Crouching down, he ruffled the boy’s hair in obvious affection. The boy responded by tilting his head to his shoulder, looking slightly awkward, though not as if the touch was unwelcome. As his older cousin spoke, the boy grinned and nodded enthusiastically. He all but shoved his little backpack into his elder cousin’s hands before turning back to Fíli and Kíli.

The man came and sat next to Thorin once more, turning his chair around to face the table. Thorin waited a moment before doing the same, but once he did, he was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

“My name’s Bilbo Baggins by the way,” the man introduced, reaching out a hand in the handshake customary to the English. It was still a bit odd to him – skin-on-skin contact between strangers was not done in Erebor – but he learned long ago to refuse was seen as a gravely insulting.

Thorin appreciated the way the man spoke at a regular, natural pace. He did not draw out his words or enunciate with exaggerated slowness. Nor did he poke at his chest and repeat his name endlessly.

No, he treated Thorin as an equal. Not someone to be condescended simply because he struggled with the official language of this country. It made Thorin inappropriately happy, and he fought back a smile.

“Thorin Durin,” he greeted in return, gripping the proffered hand. It was small and soft, making Thorin’s hand seem unseemly, calloused and large as it was in comparison.

“Where are you from?” the man asked with a friendly smile as they dropped hands. Thorin hesitated to answer, and the man – Baggins – gasped suddenly. “Oh, goodness, that was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it? Please, you don’t have to answer.” The Englishman looked away, lips quirking to the side awkwardly.

In truth, Thorin hated this question. Not only was it far too personal, but it also brought unnecessary memories to mind. So it was a bit surprising when he answered truthfully.

“I am from Erebor,” he said slowly.

Master Baggins’ eyes widened slightly, mouth falling open to an o shape. Thorin was taken aback – no one he had ever met in England knew of the small country. But the shorter man quickly swallowed his reaction, and if he knew of the terrible fate that had befallen Thorin’s homeland, he was polite enough to not mention anything.

“Ah, well, anyways. I thought I could – that is, if you wanted – explain something to you?” Opening the backpack, he fished around for a moment, grumbling under his breath most likely about the lack of organization, before withdrawing a pencil and notebook. Thorin’s lips pursed, realizing the man probably wanted to teach him English.

Seeing Thorin’s scowl, the man’s expression wilted slightly. He looked over his shoulder, his face softening once more as he gazed at his cousin.

“It’s just, well, you see. Frodo’s been rather withdrawn since his parents died. I haven’t actually seen him smile so much in a long time.”

Thorin followed the Englishman’s gaze. The three children had moved a few feet away to a small train set. They seemed to be getting along fantastically, and Fíli and Kíli were blessedly subdued from wreaking havoc.

It was the happiness on his nephews’ faces – and certainly not the relieved but hesitantly hopeful smile from Master Baggins – that decided Thorin. Besides, if he refused, the Englishman would most likely feel a bit awkward and leave, putting an unnecessarily early end to the boys’ fun.

Master Baggins opened the book and started writing. His script was curvy, and while beautiful, it made the already foreign letters seem stranger. He just put three letters:  _ c _ ,  _ s _ , and  _ t _ . Then below each, he repeated with an  _ h  _ added:  _ ch _ ,  _ sh _ , and  _ th _ . Thorin’s cheeks heated, realizing the Englishman was doing this specifically because of Thorin’s earlier struggle with the day of the week.

“Now, this first letter, c, has two different ways to be pronounced. There’s a  _ suh _ sound and a  _ kuh _ sound.” Two words were written under the column. “City is pronounced with what’s called a soft  _ c _ . But can’t has a hard  _ c _ .” He pointed to each word, waiting for Thorin to repeat. The Ereborean noticeably struggled more with the soft consonant. “Now,  _ s _ and  _ t _ both only have one way to be pronounced.” He wrote down see and tree. Thorin repeated and they moved on. “Now, when you add an  _ h  _ after these letters, the sound changes.” More words were added: chalk, she, and three. “ _ Ch _ makes a  _ chuh _ sound. Chalk.”

Thorin repeated, only to have Master Baggins shake his head. “No, see, the  _ l _ is actually silent.” He wrote the word down again, but with the offending letter removed. Thorin grumbled under his breath. How was he supposed to know? The Englishman merely chuckled in response, an alluring, soft noise.

The lesson was over fairly quickly. Thorin made to reach for the pencil, quickly stopping himself. “May I have?” he asked, fingers twitching for the writing implement. He could not remember the name in English. Master Baggins grinned and passed it over. Thorin wrote the pronunciation in Khuzdul beside each letter and word, with more detailed notes at the bottom.

“Wow,” the Englishman breathed when Thorin finished, finger tracing reverently over the angular marks. “That’s fascinating! Is this your native language?” He turned to Thorin, eyes shining with child-like curiosity.

“Khuzdul,” Thorin said.

“I’m sorry,” Master Baggins’ smile widened nervously. “Could you repeat that?”

Thorin stared at him for a moment, watching his anticipating, though slightly embarrassed, expression. “Khuzdul,” he said finally, slowing down the harsh name.

“Khuzdul,” the Englishman repeated.

Thorin’s laugh was quick and sharp, startling the other man. But seeing the amusement on the foreigner’s face, Master Baggins laughed self-deprecatingly.

“I’m saying that wrong, aren’t I?” he asked.

Thorin’s grin only widened. “It is…” he trailed off, trying to think of a fitting word. He wanted to say  _ cute _ ,  _ adorable _ ,  _ endearing _ . But that would be quite inappropriate. Instead, he just said, “Good.”

They lapsed into silence after that. The shorter man soon turned his attention to the children, Thorin joining him..

“Are these your sons?” the Englishman asked, his tone purposefully polite and non-intrusive.

“My… sister-sons,” Thorin replied. He knew that was not a term used in English, but that was the literal translation from Khuzdul.

Unsurprisingly, Master Baggins’ brow furrowed slightly before his eyes light up with understanding. “Oh! Your sister’s sons?” Receiving a grunt in reply, he supplied, “Nephews.”

Thorin shrugged, as if the information was unimportant. In his head, though, he repeated the word until he was quite sure he had it memorized.

After some time passed, the shorter man looked at his watch and sighed. Regretfully, he stood and walked over to his little cousin. They conferred for a while, Frodo pouting with enough adorableness to match even Fíli and Kíli. Then there was a discussion between all four. The boys seemed excited about something, and Frodo soon made his way to Thorin. Thorin raised a brow in surprise, but tried to keep his face welcoming to the shy boy.

“Um, Mister Thorin,” Frodo murmured softly, shyly looking up with wide, innocent eyes. “I was wondering if maybe Fíli and Kíli could come over to my house some day for a playdate.” After his little speech, Frodo looked back to his elder cousin, who gave a wink and a thumbs-up.

Then Fíli and Kíli were swarming Thorin, bouncing on their toes as they grabbed at their uncle.

“Please, Uncle, can we go over?” they asked repeatedly.

“Go over for – what?” Thorin asked, trying to keep his voice low so the Englishman would not overhear.

“A playdate!” Kíli shouted unhelpfully.

Fíli was more adept at understanding his Uncle, and supplied an equivalent phrase in Khuzdul.

“Your mother must agree first,” Thorin replied in his native language for the sake of ease.

Kíli pouted, looking disheartened, but his older brother was quick to cheer him up. “Don’t worry, Kee!” he said excitedly. “Momma will agree!” They turned to their new friend, already plotting for the future.

Master Baggins approached Thorin looking a little sheepish. “Didn’t mean to spring him on you like that,” he apologized. Thorin’s only response was a grunt. The man began writing something on the edge of the makeshift English worksheet – his name followed by a phone number.

Thorin set to work programming the number into his phone. He had some difficulty, and there may have been a few muttered curses, always answered with a small laugh. Thorin did not often have a number to add to his contacts, nor did he text. His phone was programmed so he only had to know two buttons in order to reach his sister. With no small effort, Master Baggins’ phone eventually buzzed with an incoming message. Opening it up, his expression softened as he saw the unknown sender had simply written THORIN.

“My sister knows to read,” Thorin told the shorter man once he finished – embarrassingly quicker – adding Thorin to his own contacts.

“She knows English?” Master Baggins clarified. At Thorin’s nod, the shorter man looked a bit relieved. “Good, good.” He sniffled, doing an odd twitch of his nose followed by his lips pulling to the side. “So when I text you, you can just give the phone to your sister.”

Nodding in agreement, Thorin ordered the boys to say goodbye. As they whined in protest, he reminded them of their impending reunion, and the complaints soon gave way to excited planning once more.

“It was really nice meeting you, Thorin.” Like all Englishmen, Master Baggins had a way of softening the pronunciation. But once again, Thorin found the accent incredibly endearing. The man blushed, shaking his curls awkwardly under Thorin’s stare.

“It is nice meeting you, Master Baggins,” Thorin replied, aware but for once uncaring about his own mispronunciation. The Englishman grinned and stuck his hand out. Instead of grasping the warm skin – though he certainly desired to do so – Thorin clasped his hand around the man’s slender forearm. Master Baggins’ eyes widened in surprise but he seemed more than happy to return the unfamiliar gesture, though with a far more gentle grip.

Master Baggins went to bid Fíli and Kíli farewell as Frodo did the same to Thorin. Though when Frodo offered him a solemn handshake, Thorin went with the English custom of goodbye.

Then Master Baggins was off, little Frodo at his side excitedly gushing about all his plans with his new friends. Thorin couldn’t have fought the smile from his lips even if he had wanted to. His chest felt light, and he knew he would be impatiently waiting to hear from the kind, honey-curled man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I have no idea if this is England's policy, but...let's pretend, okay? ;)
> 
> I don't own a copy of The Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar so I'm going off my own childhood memory more or less.  
> Thorin's struggle with English - knowing the alphabet and numbers but struggling to pronounce words, reading children's books for practise, struggling beyond common phrases - is all based off my sister-in-law who is learning English, and I'm helping her. So I hope it was realistic.  
> This was supposed to be a short one-shot, but then I got wayyyy too involved in their backstory, and, well... I guess I have to continue this!


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's favourite sister!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyy I'm still on vacation but decided to put this up anyways. That means there may be lots of mistakes - it's on my phone - but I promise I'll go back once I'm home. Hope you enjoy!  
> 

Thorin sat at their small, rickety multi-purpose wooden table after a long day at work. Construction was by no means stimulating, but it was the best Thorin could hope for at the moment. It required very little speaking, and employers were always looking for hard-workers who would not laze about on the job smoking and trading crude jokes. Thorin was always willing to take on any task, and he never complained when given extra hours. Provided he was paid, he would work for as long as necessary.

When he had arrived home late, just about ready to collapse until his early morning, Dís quickly went about reheating some leftovers. Soon he was greeted with a plate of beef, potatoes, and unleavened bread. The flavouring was simple – garlic, onion, and specks of green Thorin could not name. But they lived on meager means, and not so long ago such a generous serving would have been unimaginable.

His sister’s English was good enough to get a job, something entry level perhaps, but it was difficult with the boys. They remained in her care all day, and she was currently responsible for their education. So far Kíli’s young age delayed his education, but next year he would be five, a standard age to enter year one. Thorin knew Dís conversely dreaded and craved this time to come. She wanted to get a job – she often felt like she did not contribute enough, and was unused to depending on another person so heavily. In Erebor, women were quite independent and self-sufficient. Even if married, they rarely chose to rely solely on a spouse for financial support. It was common to raise children whilst holding a career outside the home. Thus, this dependence on Thorin bothered Dís, and at times she expressed feelings of confinement. But while she naturally yearned to find a job beyond raising a family, she was also scared to let go of her sons.

This fear had developed after all she had gone through with the civil war in Erebor. Only Thorin could be entrusted with the care of her sons; the thought of a complete stranger looking after them – especially amongst a few dozen more children – was terrifying. Thorin understood his sister’s fears, and did his best to support her struggles. After all, they had lost far more than their homes and material possessions in the conflict.

When war had threatened to erupt, Thorin and his siblings had begged their grandfather, Thrór, and father, Thráin, to escape. But Thrór and Thráin were loyal to a fault; they could not bear leaving their birthplace, their home, their lives. Even though Thrór's kingship had been usurped decades ago, he saw Erebor as his country and his responsibility. To turn away from Erebor in its greatest need was treason in their eyes. They would rather die in honour - as they saw it - than run.

Recognizing they would never leave, it was up to Thorin to rally his family. Their numbers had been greater then with the addition of Frerin, Dís and Thorin’s brother, and Víli, Dís’ husband and father to her children.

Frerin and Víli, however, never made it across Erebor’s border.

Insurgents had caught them trying to cross to the neighbouring country. Thorin had been in the lead; he crawled over first, and signaled Dís and Fíli to follow. Fíli made it through the barbed wire without a problem, but his mother’s pregnant belly slowed her down considerably. Luckily, both her and the boy made it over safely. She joined Thorin in the underbrush after making sure Fíli was properly hidden.

The shouting was their first warning something had gone wrong. Thorin had immediately tried to go help Frerin and Víli, refusing to leave his kin behind. But Dís held him back for she, too, shot forward at the escalating yells. His sister's stubbornness was unrivaled. Thorin knew if he went back, she would be right behind him. But they both had a responsibility beyond anything and anyone else: protecting the young, innocent Fíli.

Thorin made the decision to run instead of fight. To this day, he was conflicted with guilt. There was always doubt - could he have made it in time? Should Thorin have gone last instead of first? The questions were unanswerable, only worsening his torment. The last thing he would ever hear from his brother was a scream to run. Then gunfire. Silence.

The murderers had not risked crossing Erebor’s boundary, but still the family had run for miles, until their chests burned, stomachs cramped, and Fíli begged to stop.

The memories churned his insides, a familiar pit of dread settling in his gut. But a loud thump as Dís collapsed into a chair beside him pulled the Ereborean from his dark thoughts. He turned back to his food, appetite lost. But living in poverty had taught him to eat every meal given, and he did just that.

“M’imnu Mahal,” Thorin blessed his food under his breath before eating. Dís simply watched as he scooped the food up with the bread before popping it all in his mouth. The routine was familiar - she was waiting until he filled his stomach a bit more before speaking.

“How was your day?” she asked finally, unable to wait longer than half his plate being finished.

"Good,” he grunted, quickly filling his mouth before he had to say more. Dís, of course, was not having that. She kicked his leg gently under the table, an annoying reminder.

“It was good,” he amended. She encouraged –  _ forced _ – him to use full sentences to expand on his vocabulary. “They keep me long.”

“Kept,” she corrected. “They kept you for longer hours.”

He continued without acknowledgement, “It was very hot today.”

"Did you enjoy the lunch I gave you?” Dís asked.

"Yes,” he answered. “It was very good. The food was tasty.” Dís snickered at his rehearsed compliment, and he resolutely ignored her.

A soft chiming signaling a message had Dís patting down all her pockets. She got up to search the small kitchen, soon returning with an open phone. She stood still for a few minutes, pressing a few buttons with a small frown.

Phones were a luxury upon which they perhaps should not have been wasting money. But when they first arrived, Dís had been prone to panic attacks if Thorin was not home exactly on time. With all they had been through, Thorin knew he would pay any money to put his sister’s mind to ease. The old, second-hand models had not cost too much, and they bought cheap pre-paid plans with only the barest necessities.

“Thorin, I think it’s your phone,” Dís said disbelievingly.

Thorin mirrored her confusion, fishing the small device from his pocket. Who could possibly be messaging him? Unless the phone was warning him about some technical problem. It did that sometimes.

_ Oh _ .

The message was from his newest contact – Bilbo Baggins. He read over the text slowly, lips threatening to turn upwards in a pleased smile. In the busyness of work, Thorin had regrettably forgotten about the cute, curly-haired stranger.

"Thorin?” Dís eyed him with a strange expression. He shoved the phone at her.

“Read,” he ordered. He understood most of the text, but some things were incomprehensible. He was also stumped on how to reply.

In spite of his eagerness, his command was met with an incredulous brow raise. “Please read,” he amended begrudgingly.

Dís tutted at the attitude but did as asked. “Hello Thorin,” she began dramatically reading aloud, lips curving into a devilish grin as she continued, “It was really great meeting you at the bookstore. I was hoping we could arrange for a play date between Frodo and your nephews. Let me know if you’re still interested.”

Thorin groaned as she gave him an appraising look, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes where a pounding headache was already starting.

"Who is this Bilbo?” she purred his name, batting her eyelashes.

"No one,” Thorin said sharply, reaching up to grab the phone back. Dís danced out of reach, eyes twinkling teasingly.

“I suppose you don’t want to arrange a  _ play date  _ after all!” The way she emphasized the words made the innuendo quite clear.

Thorin growled. “You don’t want Fíli and Kíli to have friend,” he retorted.

She laughed haughtily, waving the phone out of his grasp. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you have the upper hand here, dear nadad,” she cooed in their native tongue.

Stubborn Thorin may be, but he knew defeat when he saw it. Shoulders slumping, he resigned himself to the inevitable teasing. It would be worth it, hopefully, once he saw Master Baggins again.

"We met at store with Fíli and Kíli,” he admitted slowly. “I did reading to the boys, and Baggins and his, uhm, cousin, sat.”

“And…” Dís drawled, retaking her seat as she leaned towards her brother as if hanging off every word. “How did this turn into a  _ date _ exactly?”

For Thorin’s sake she spoke in Khuzdul for the unfamiliar term. “It is not  _ date _ ,” he growled in frustration. “It is Fíli and Kíli – they want.”

"So you wouldn’t mind if I took them instead of you?” she asked in their native tongue. The dark look she automatically received had Dís bursting into laughter.

"Don’t worry, dear nadad! I won’t ruin your fun!”

Thorin grumbled protestingly. “I know him,” he stated, keeping to English. “He don’t know you.”

Dís waved off his griping. “Alright, alright. Now.” She held the phone up, thumbs poised to reply. “What should I say?” Her salacious wink was ignored.

“I like seeing you,” he started slowly. “I want to have, ah, play day?” he inwardly cringed at the uncertainty in his voice. “With Fíli and Kíli and… Frodo.”

He felt quite content with the message – short and to the point, but subtly conveying his enthusiasm. One look from Dís, however, and all his confidence drained. “What?” he asked dumbly.

With a great long suffering sigh, she rested the phone on the table. “Thorin, that was a terrible attempt at flirting,” she scolded in Khuzdul.

“I’m not trying to flirt,” he retorted. “Send it.” When she refused to comply, he added, “Please,” in English for good measure.

Once the message was typed out, she read it out to him. “Hello Bilbo. I really enjoyed meeting you. I would like to arrange a play date as well. Let me know when you and Frodo are free.”

"Baggins," he corrected. To use the man's first name was far too familiar. While Master Baggins' used Thorin's first name, custom did not necessarily dictate the favour could be returned.

"Master Baggins then," Dís corrected.

Before she sent it, Thorin motioned for the phone back. Not that he didn’t trust his sister to not send something inappropriate but, well, he didn’t trust her. At  _ all _ . Thankfully, all the words appeared to match up.

Once the message was sent, he pocketed the device, thanked his sister, and dropped his dishes in the sink. He made his way to his room, fully prepared to collapse. He doubted he could sum up enough energy to change his clothes, much less shower.

Dís’ indignant yelling stopped him before he could reach his beloved door. “Umm, excuse me!” she called. “Aren’t you going to tell me about the stranger you’re sending my only sons to!?”

Thorin groaned, thumping his forehead against the wooden door miserably. So close, he thought remorsefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M'inmu Mahal - literally: By the name of Durin. Here, used as a way of blessing their food in the name of their deity before eating.  
> Nadad - brother
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed.. I have the next chapter started, but beyond that, I'm basically lost. This wasn't supposed to continue! Haha. So I actually have no plot or ideas....I'm trying hard to come up with stuff....bear with me :_


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments, and favourited/followed this story :) And special thanks to people who have been contributing thoughts/ideas! If there's anything you guys would like to see, please let me know and I'll try my best to add it in. I'm still in the process of turning a one-shot into a story with actual plot, so, bear with me!
> 
> Would you guys prefer me to write in italics when they're speaking Khuzdul, or is it easily understood as it is now?
> 
> I've never understood how apostrophes work (like Baggins' vs. Baggin's) so I'm so sorry if I keep messing it up.
> 
>  
> 
> **Important note** I have changed Thorin's backstory to in fact being of royal blood. Thrór was king many decades ago, before Thorin was even born, but his throne was usurped. The rebels that started the current civil war claimed to want to free Erebor from the oppressive regime, only to turn on civilians; they are only looking to control the country themselves. Previous flashbacks have been altered to go along with this. Thanks senoritacatamount for the suggestion!

With the help of his sister (and her _extremely_ helpful teasing), Thorin had arranged a day with Master Baggins for their wards to meet up at the latter's home.

As per Master Baggin's instructions, the bus pulled over in front of the two-story house they were supposed to watch out for. The landmark was quite distinctive, to say the least. The exterior was painted a myriad of mismatched colours. The door was a deep sapphire, the walls a bright peridot. Each window was lined in yellow citrine, and around the circular glass panes were burgundy rectangles. Thorin wasn’t sure if they were supposed to resemble bricks. It was very strange, in his opinion. Then again, a lot of things about this country left him baffled.

Master Baggins' house was supposed to be three plots down. Fíli and Kíli raced ahead, pushing each other to be the first arriving.

“Boys!” Thorin growled in warning. When they didn’t respond, he called threateningly. “I’khizi!”

Both children froze immediately at their uncle’s tone, leaving Kíli with his hands bunched in his brother’s shirt, and Fíli with his arms out as he tried for balance. They slowly turned back, eyes wide and apologetic. They waited until their uncle was in the lead before walking again, this time much more subdued.

“Say again,” Thorin commanded as he strode past.

Fíli rolled his eyes and gave a heavy sigh. His uncle pursed his lips at the attitude, especially starting at such a young age - he obviously got it from his mother. But Thorin had to refrain from chastisement, as he currently needed his nephew’s help.

“At your service,” Fíli enunciated slowly.

Thorin nodded shortly. He was quite sure he knew it by now, but had wanted to hear the English once more to confirm.

As they continued down the stone path, Thorin found himself enveloped by a mixture of floral scents. His nose wrinkled; he wasn't used to such delicate smells. Master Baggins appeared to love gardening quite a lot, for his front yard was filled with many colourful plants. None of which Thorin would ever be able to name.

The front door was oddly rounded in a way he had never seen before. The brass doorhandle was placed closer to the centre of the door, instead of to the edge like usual. Was this some strange English style, he wondered? Thorin had meant to double-check the house number once more before knocking. Until, of course, Fíli and Kíli all but threw themselves at the door, pounding their little fists against the green wood.

“Stop that,” he hissed, grasping their shoulders to pull them away.

Most likely hurrying due to the assault on his house, the door swung open. There stood Master Baggins. He greeted the boys with an open laugh and a ruffle of their hair, ushering them in. Then he turned to his adult guest, and the Ereborean was helpless to stare. Master Baggins was even more alluring than memory served.

He wore a simple white button-up with black suspenders looping over his shoulders. Around his waist was an apron, covered in flour and dough, as were his hands. His curls were a bit of a mess, haphazardly pushed behind large ears. A smudge of flour blemished his round cheek, perhaps from him pushing a strand out of his face.

“Thorin?” Master Baggins asked cautiously. Thorin swallowed and looked away, embarrassed when he realized he had been staring. He thought it may have been worth it, though, to see the pretty flush across the man's comely face.

Clearing his throat, Thorin stood a bit taller and placed his right hand over his heart. “Thorin Durin,” he declared formally before bowing low at the waist. “At your service.”

As he straightened, he noticed Master Baggins had a strange look on his face - slight confusion mixed with amusement and intrigue. They stared at each other a moment, Thorin dreading he had somehow made an offence - English people could be awfully sensitive - when his host suddenly started.

“Oh, well-” he quickly mimicked Thorin's actions. Or tried to. His hand was in a fist instead of flush against his chest - it would have been insulting, if not for Master Baggin's lack of knowledge and his stained hands. His bow was shallow and jerky, but as he repeated the greeting, he looked up with an excited grin. Thorin really couldn't help the way his lips twitched in response.

"Come in, then," Master Baggins greeted, stepping aside and flourishing his hand towards the entrance. With a gracious incline of his head, Thorin stepped into the foyer. As he began to remove his heavy boots, he noticed two pairs of small, familiar shoes thrown randomly around the floor.

"Fíli, Kíli!" Thorin immediately yelled. Bilbo tried to inquire what was the matter, but Thorin waved off his concern as he finished removing his own footwear neatly against the wall.

Increasingly loud giggles signaled the boys' approach, though one look at their uncle's face and the entertainment quickly drained from their faces.

"What is this?" he asked rhetorically, pointing emphatically at the mess. Fíli and Kíli bowed their heads shamefully. Frodo approached his elder cousin slowly, big eyes filled with trepidation. He murmured softly to Master Baggins, tugging on his shirt nervously.

"You disgrace the House of Durin. This is not how you treat such a gracious host. Clean your mess, then you may go." They scurried to fulfill the Khuzdul order, though Thorin could see their relief when they realized they could stay.

"Oh, Thorin, really," Master Baggins began awkwardly as he saw the cleaning up. "It's fine, they're just kids. So long as my mother's glory box remains untouched, I really don't mind."

Thorin turned to his host. "It is no good, Master Baggins," he declared. "They learn." Master Baggins looked mildly uncomfortable, though Thorin could not say if it was from speaking out of place or disagreeing with Thorin's methods. They stayed there until the boys left once again, this time much more subdued.

Master Baggins guided Thorin down a long hallway. Thorin soon learned the property apparently had a name - Bag End. It had belonged to Master Baggins’ parents, his father having built it for his mother. At least, that's what Thorin understood. He had never heard of a home being named before, though.

Thorin was brought to a room referred to as a parlour. It was spacious, all dark wood and numerous windows, giving it an open and airy feel. There was a fireplace against one wall, and Thorin resolutely ignored the shudder down his spine. Above the fireplace was two portraits, a fine woman with curly hair and a homely man with the same curls, though shorter. Given the resemblance, they must be the aforementioned deceased parents.

"I'm terribly sorry,” Bilbo interrupted Thorin’s focus. Thorin instead watched his host, the way he fiddled with his suspenders as if nervous, eyes wide and nose twitching. “I'm just finishing baking. I'll be done in a few minutes, but please, make yourself comfortable." Master Baggins waved his hand downwards and Thorin obligingly sat in a large plush chair. "The children are just down the hall in the sitting room, and I'll be in the kitchen!" With that, Master Baggins turned and scurried off. He had seemed a bit flustered, and Thorin belatedly realized he had apologized for something. Master Baggins had probably been expecting Thorin to reassure him. Instead Thorin stared at him without a word.

In Thorin's defence, it had been a long time since he had socialised with anyone beyond Dís and the boys. And many more years since he had even attempted anything close to courting.

Not that he was in any way trying to court Master Baggins.

No, that would be preposterous. Clearly. Despite anything his sister may claim.

As Thorin sat in the parlour alone, surrounded by more space than most likely his entire living room and kitchen combined, he began to realize he felt a bit out of place at Bag End. While he didn’t really notice the disparity in his and Bilbo’s income levels at their first meeting, the grand house made it quite obvious. Thorin and his nephews dressed in worn second-hand clothes. Clothes were never thrown away in their household – Dís would sew them back together for as long as possible. When they were beyond repair, they would be reused as cloths. But Bilbo and Frodo obviously did not have this problem. Their clothes were in no way flashy or pompous. But it was hard to miss the good quality and wrinkle-free cleanliness.

Before becoming a refugee, Thorin had been a stranger to poverty. After the kingdom had been usurped, his forebears had been homeless and struggling. Then they came upon a mine, one that had been abandoned long ago. Local miners claimed it was worthless, bearing dirty coal and no more. Thorin’s grandfather, Thrór, had set to work despite all the discouragement he received. And he had struck gold. Literally.

Thrór’s mine had been colloquially referred to as the Lonely Mountain. For it had been abandoned many years, then salvaged by one lone man. While the mine was not nearly the size of a mountain, its abundance of wealth was great.

Despite his vast fortune, Thrór had always insisted on working in the mine. Some claimed it was not honest work ethic that had Thrór always returning, but an unhealthy attachment to gold. After all, his covetous greed had, in the opinion of many, led to Thrór’s downfall as ruler, and encouraged a rebel with Royal blood to take the throne by force. Thorin had not been alive when Thrór was still king in Ered Mithrin. He had heard many stories, mostly about the troubled period soon before the House of Durin ultimately fled. He could not say what was true and what was false. But he knew his grandfather now. He knew the man he had become, humbled from years of wandering homeless before coming upon a great mine. When people had then accused him of greed, Thorin adamantly disagreed. Cultivating beautiful objects from cold, unyielding stone was not just a whimsical passion. It was deeply ingrained in their culture, a feat of great importance. Thrór was not only fulfilling a cultural tradition; he was ensuring his family once again had stability.

In an effort to instill this traditional love of mining, in their youth, Frerin, Dís and Thorin had been recruited to work for their family’s business. Thorin always understood there were lessons to be learned in these duties, unlike his siblings who were wont to shirk their duties in favour of youthful fun. However, it wasn’t until fleeing to England – and taking up jobs mostly including manual labour – that Thorin had really appreciated the way mining had prepared him for such rough work.

Thorin in no way begrudged Master Baggins' wealth. He only hoped Master Baggins did not look down on him, or worse yet, pity him. Did he see them as some charity case? The poor, struggling immigrants in need of help?

As soon as the thought came to Thorin’s mind, it was rejected. He had encountered people like that. Mostly older, wealthy women who would take one look at Fíli and Kíli’s greasy hair and dirty clothes - when they had first arrived, when things had been at their worst - before cooing about how sad it was and throwing their cheap bills at the family. Sometimes they would grow haughty and self-righteous, insist they only wanted to help, not seeing how they treated Thorin’s family akin to starving stray dogs. A few became flat-out hostile, going so far as to claim Dís and Thorin were unfit parents.

Master Baggins, of course, had done nothing of the sort. He appeared genuinely polite, and did not pry into Thorin's personal life. He had wished for the boys' presence for the sake of Frodo, who seemed genuinely excited to have them. At the absolute worst, he may have invited them over begrudgingly, only for Frodo's sake, and was too polite to say.

Master Baggins returned fairly soon. To Thorin's secret disappointment, he had cleaned all flour from his face and even appeared to have combed out his once-disarrayed curls. He did not come alone; he carried a serving plate with a teapot and matching teacups and saucers. Thorin didn't remember seeing such a thing since his grandmother was still alive; his people preferred a much stronger drink.

Seeing his hosts’ load, Thorin shot up immediately. Master Baggins gave him a strange look as he approached, almost fearful. Thorin wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting, but apparently it wasn't for Thorin to grab the tray from his hands.

"Thorin, you don't need to do that," he pleaded vainly. He merely received a grunt as Thorin placed the tray on the large wooden table. "Well, thank you," he murmured bashfully.

“Ya harmu ‘addad.” He had to pause a moment. "It is - you are..." Thorin's jaw twitched in concealed frustration. He had been practicing his English before coming here, why was it all slipping away?

"You're welcome?" Master Baggins offered eventually.

"You are welcomed," he grumbled.

Master Baggins grinned, settling down in his own armchair before leaving forward to pour himself some tea. It was a strange drink to offer. Ale was preferred for any company past noon in Erebor. Thorin didn't have a great fondness for tea, but he found himself drinking it anyways. Master Baggins grimaced at the amount of sugar and cream he added, however.

"So, Thorin," Master Baggins started amiably. "What kind of work do you do, if I may ask?"

"I work construction," he answered.

Master Baggins hummed. "That must be hard work."

Instead of answering as he should have, or returning the question, Thorin sipped his tea in silence.

"How long have you –" Master Baggins broke off, clearing his throat. "Ah, worked construction?"

Thorin eyed his host, scrutinizing. "We live four years here," he answered the question he was sure the man had really meant to ask.

Master Baggins became a bit flustered, stammering as he insisted he didn't mean to pry. Thorin merely waved off his concerns; he was not so easily offended. "What work you have?" Thorin asked.

Apparently it was the right thing to ask; Master Baggins' eyes lit up excitedly. "I'm a writer, actually." For a moment, the excitement seemed replaced with hesitancy, as if his response was often met with scorn.

"You like to write?" When Master Baggins' nodded, he asked, "What you like to write?"

At Thorin's interest, Master Baggins' enthusiasm returned, though he seemed to be bashfully holding back. "Oh, well, I write adventure stories, mostly. You know, a character accidentally winds up on some great noble quest. I also write poems, though those are harder to publish. Less demand, you see. And now that I have Frodo, I've dabbled in some children's stories."

"You write for child?" Thorin asked slowly.

Master Baggins said, "Yes, though it was never my intention. I would make up stories for Frodo when he first arrived, to help him sleep at night. He enjoyed them so much, I decided to write them down so he could always enjoy them." Master Baggins' eyes softened at the mention of his young ward, eyes full of affection and soft with concern.

"Fíli and Kíli read?" Thorin suggested. In all honesty, he was very intrigued to see what kind of stories the man wrote. But as he could only handle a children's book, he could suggest it was for his nephews' sake.

Master Baggins looked down shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind his red ear. "It's really not that good," he mumbled. "Frodo and I did the illustrations together, and it's quite -"

"I will read." Thorin's tone brooked no argument, and it seemed to please and embarrass Master Baggins conversely.

Before they could speak further, a loud buzzing went off from somewhere else in the house.

"Oh!" Master Baggins jumped up. "The food is ready, if you'd like to come," waving Thorin to follow as he went down the hallway. Thorin took a moment to pick up the forgotten tea and brought the tray with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’khizi: stop  
> Ya harmu ‘added: you are welcome, formal. Literally: with the favour of (the fathers).  
> The original chapter was growing ridiculously long, so I decided to split it into two. So the next will pick up immediately where this left off.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another ESL!Thorin story posted, this one is basically a two-shot. It's actually the story I came up with before this one. If you guys want to check it out, it's called "You Want a What!?"
> 
> For whatever reason, I was actually worried this chapter would be really short, so I cut the previous one off too early. Umm, so this chapter is ridiculously long. At least it'll make up for last week?

Despite the labyrinth of doors, it was not hard to find the kitchen as the scent of warm, fresh dough and spicy cinnamon wafted from the open doorway. Master Baggins had donned his little apron once more, ridiculously large red oven mitts dwarfing his forearms. He was bent forward into the oven, carefully grasping a tray of pastries. Thorin looked away, perhaps belatedly from the sudden heat flooding his cheeks.

Looking for distraction, Thorin reached for a cooling tray that had been placed on the stove temporarily. Master Baggins straightened from the oven, another tray in his hands.

“Oh, goodness Thorin!” Hands full as they were, he hurriedly placed the pan on a metal rack before ushering a confused Thorin away. “I didn’t mean to leave that for you. Please, the dining room is just down the hall, you can take a seat while I get everything ready.” When Thorin didn’t move, Master Baggins gave him a gentle push, the residual heat from the oven mitts warming the man’s skin. “Just the next door, to the right,” he instructed.

Unable to refuse his host’s request, Thorin sauntered over to the dining room. Predictably, it was quite spacious, with a large dining table made of dark wood. After a moment’s consideration, he took the seat to the right of the head of the table. Perhaps it was a little presumptuous, but since the boys were so young he felt it was acceptable.

It was not long before Master Baggins came, attempting to balance a tray of baked goods in each hand. Thorin’s attempt to grab one of the plates was politely rebuffed, and then the host was off to the kitchen once more. This time he returned with the tea tray from earlier - though the cups were emptied, and most likely the tea was brewed fresh as well, despite them having enjoyed the batch mere minutes ago - and a pile of plates and cutlery. He went about setting a place for everyone. Thorin had stood once more to give the host room to arrange things as he liked. Once he was done, Bilbo smiled brightly and waved at the head of the table.

“Come sit, Thorin.”

Thorin blinked slowly, unsure how to react. To be placed at the head of someone else’s table was a great honour in his culture, one that could have numerous intentions. Of course with his greying hair, it was quite obvious Thorin was Master Baggins’ elder by a few years - the placement was a sign of respect for his seniority. Nothing more.

Not that this realization took anything away from the pleased feeling warming his chest. As Thorin pulled out the seat, he gazed over the table – numerous little tarts, savoury with the smell of spiced apple, a glazed rectangular cake sliced to reveal specks of lemon, and a platter of bright strawberries next to a bowl of what Thorin did not doubt was freshly whipped cream.

They had come over so the boys could play together, expecting nothing more than a day of childish fun, at most a trip to a playground. But this – food prepared from scratch, hot tea, fresh fruit – it was simply overwhelming. To have met such a gracious man, Thorin was truly grateful.

Instead of sitting, Thorin turned to the man in question. With a respectful bow of his head, he said with great appreciation, “I thank you.”

“Oh,” Master Baggins waved his hand dismissively. “It’s no bother. Don’t even mention it!”

The response made Thorin frown. The man made it seem as though he did not appreciate or want Thorin’s gratitude.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin called as the man began to walk away. Master Baggins turned back, looking confused as Thorin approached. Placing his palm over heart, he inclined his head and spoke gravely. “Akhminruki astû. I thank you. For all.”

Master Baggins swallowed and pulled his lips to one side, a little overwhelmed. “You’re quite welcome,” he finally replied in a soft voice.

Thorin nodded, satisfied with the response. He realized now it was likely just a cultural difference. Perhaps it was a Western standard to brush off gratitude and insist good deeds took no effort. Perhaps to them this was polite, but to Thorin, it made it seem as though Master Baggins’ actions were meaningless, unimportant. They were anything but, and he needed to make sure the man knew.

“I’m just going to, ah, get the boys,” Master Baggins’ gaze was averted as he mumbled a little awkwardly. Despite his words, he stood there a moment longer. Thumbs hooked under his suspenders, Master Baggins rocked on his heels. His mouth opened then closed but he turned to go without another word.

Thorin watched the small form turn the corner before taking a seat. Then Master Baggins was popping his curly head round the corner, startling Thorin as he spoke.

“Ah, Thorin?” he called. “Please, just call me Bilbo.” And with that he was off once more, leaving Thorin speechless so easily.

 

Small feet slammed against hard wood flooring as three children sprinted into the dining room, though Thorin was left with no doubt as to who had instigated the race. Fíli easily arrived first, his little bother literally sliding into place right after. Little Frodo came last, chubby cheeks cherry red with exertion as he panted. He huffed slightly at being in the third to arrive, but his bright blue eyes shined with excitement.

It was hard to scold his nephews for bad behaviour when they were clearly so happy. And it was made utterly impossible when Master Baggins – Bilbo, he corrected himself – entered the room, laughing gaily and congratulating Fíli on a race well won.

Fíli clambered to his uncle’s left, Kíli taking the seat beside his brother.

“You only won ‘cause you have the longest legs,” Kíli declared glumly.

“Of course my legs are the longest!” Fíli retorted cheerfully. “I’m older than you.”

“Enough.” Thorin spoke sternly in their native tongue, having seen the boys’ petty fights enough times to predict them.

Their focus was soon diverted to filling their plates with the sweet treats. Bilbo poured the children tea, making sure to push a bowl of sugar towards Fíli and Kíli.

“What is all this?” Kíli asked in slight amazement, mouth already full of warm pastry.

“Well, there’s apple tarts, tea cake, and strawberries and cream,” Bilbo noted as he pointed to each item. “I know it’s a bit simple, but I hope you enjoy it.”

Before Thorin could interject, Fíli’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t like apples,” he said dejectedly.

“Fíli –” Thorin started angrily.

“That’s fine, Fíli,” Bilbo said with a gentle smile. “You don’t have to eat anything you don’t like.” Kíli didn’t hesitate to cleanse his brother’s plate of the offending treat.

They lapsed into silence, too busy enjoying the delicious meal to speak at length. Thorin had to bite back a moan at his first taste of warm apple tart. The crispy dough was a delicious juxtaposition against the soft baked apple inside. Cinnamon, sugar, and butter melted on his tongue, delighting his taste buds.

Thorin had thought with no small amount of guilt that he and the boys had taken more than a fair portion. But he watched as Bilbo and Frodo polished off their plates and continued piling on more food.

“Where are you putting it all?” Fíli finally asked, breathless, as he stared with wide eyes.

His brother was quick to chime in, “That’s so much food!”

Frodo stayed quiet, continuing to eat though at a slightly more sedate pace. Bilbo, however, swallowed his mouthful and replied, “Why, this is only afternoon tea!”

He grinned cheerily, though his smile fell slightly at the three incredulous stares he received.

“How much do you eat?” Kíli cried.

“Us Bagginses are known for a hearty appetite, isn’t that right Frodo, my boy?” Bilbo answered with an innocent grin. He ruffled his young cousin’s hair, who ducked his head shyly.

Thorin’s blood burned as his mind was assaulted with not-so-innocent interpretations. Thankfully, Bilbo’s next words proved an innocuous distraction.

“This dinnerware was my mother’s. Antique pure silver, that is.”

Kíli nodded politely as he continued eating, quite uninterested, while Fíli translated. At his nephew’s explanation, Thorin held up the spoon next to his tea. He examined it closely, checking the back. Then he shook his head.

“No,” he stated simply.

Bilbo immediately began sputtering indignantly. “How could you possibly know that?”

Thorin simply looked at him, raising a thick haughty brow. “I know,” he drawled in heavily accented English.

“Well, we’ll just have to see about this!” Bilbo grabbed his own cutlery and brought it up to his face for careful inspection. After a few moments during which he discerned absolutely nothing, he dropped it with a huff. “I’ll just have to take it to a real appraiser. I’m quite sure I remember my parents telling me they are pure silver, certainly not plated. Oh, it would be a shame to think they got swindled!”

As Bilbo prattled on, Fíli slowly translated between ginormous bites of food. It was slow going, as the boy’s mouth was full more oft than not, but he finally got to Bilbo’s declaration of taking the cutlery to a real appraiser.

A hot flash of anger burned in Thorin’s chest. Scowling, he spat out in Khuzdul, “A real jewelry appraiser, hmm? As if I do not know onyx from a lump of coal!”

Bilbo stopped his tirade, looking quite shocked at Thorin’s outburst. “Oh,” he breathed. “Did I - I’m sorry, did I say something?” Thorin continued muttering angrily, food forgotten. Helpless, Bilbo turned to Fíli for explanation. The young boy shifted uncomfortably, not exactly willing to translate some of his uncle’s words.

“Don’t worry, Mister Boggins!” Kíli chimed in. “Uncle is always grumpy.” Bilbo gave the small boy a tight, polite smile, though his eyes revealed his worry.

No one spoke the rest of the meal, and once he was finished, Frodo made sure to run off with the boys right away.

Thorin assisted in clearing the table - if only because he doubted very much in the strength of Bilbo’s arms - but once the dishes were returned to the kitchen, he considered his job done. It was expected for a guest to offer their help, even though such offers were almost always rejected. But Thorin did no such thing today. He stalked out of the room, resolutely ignoring Bilbo’s nervous smile. The Ereborean spent the afternoon in the sitting room with the children. Not that he was using his only nephews to avoid a certain person. Besides, it warmed Thorin to watch them play so carefree.

As it is so with every other aspect of their lives, even having fun soon became a competition between the brothers. If they were building towers, Fíli would have to build higher. If they decided to run around playing tag, Kíli had to be faster. Luckily Frodo did not mind, or perhaps even notice, the sibling rivalry. And the brothers, to Thorin’s surprise, did not exclude Frodo in any way. They laughed and played together easily, as if life-long friends.

It was simple for children; inclusion came naturally to them. But it amazed Thorin nonetheless. Kíli had only ever had interaction with his brother, mother, and uncle. Fíli had been around others often, but not for the past four years. They were generally quite wary of strangers – and for good reason, in their uncle’s opinion. Perhaps the boys were drawn to Frodo’s naïve innocence, much in the way Thorin was to the boy’s older cousin. Bilbo was not necessarily naïve, but he exuded an innocent goodness that drew Thorin in.

The man in question came to check in on them, head of golden curls popping in through the doorframe. His hands were covered in soapy dishwashing gloves, and he stayed for but a minute before leaving again. Before he left, Bilbo gave Thorin an uneasy smile, one that mismatched his confused eyes, but he did not receive a response.

Thorin could admit to himself that he was drawn to Bilbo – and there was nothing wrong with seeking friendship from the man. But this admittance did nothing to calm his burning anger. The cruelty of Bilbo’s earlier words cut deep in his heart. He tried to focus on the anger, the hot flash of fury burning in his veins, but he could not ignore the pang in his chest, the churning of his stomach that belied his _hurt_.

Thorin knew Bilbo’s words hurt more than a mere acquaintances’ should, but he tried to ignore that fact. Truly, he was not angry for some trivial reason. Smithing was the hallmark of his people. From a young age they were instilled with this knowledge, valued more than even their own history. While of course there was a myriad of trades Ereboreans sought as they grew up – healing, cooking, tailing, so on – smithing was something everyone knew, no matter their class.

While all Ereboreans valued it, Thorin did especially so. When his grandfather had been banished from his own throne, it was mining that had saved him and their family. He owed such great thanks to their Creator for providing his forefather with the plentiful mine, the Lonely Mountain. To accuse Thorin of not knowing the simple difference between pure silver and silver plate – it did not only insult him; it insulted the very memory of his father and grandfather, who had given everything for their homeland, even their lives.

He could compare it to accusing Bilbo, who clearly loved writing and story telling, of illiteracy. But even that comparison fell terribly short.

During his internal tirade, Bilbo returned sans gloves. Instead he carried another blasted tray of tea. Thorin turned a blind eye as the small man approached, placing the tray close to his guest.

“Thorin?” Despite his effort, he was helpless to ignore the soft voice. He turned slowly, face carefully void of emotion. Bilbo wiggled his nose awkwardly before offering a cup, forcing a polite smile on his face. “Would you like some tea?”

Thorin watched silently, examining Bilbo’s wide, earnest eyes and tight, hopeful smile. The longer silence reined, Bilbo’s smile oddly widened, looking increasingly strained.

Thorin finally shook his head, watching as Bilbo’s gaze fell, crestfallen. He sniffed, lips pursing to the side as he put the tea down beside his guest despite Thorin’s refusal.

The reaction tugged at Thorin’s heart, anger being rapidly replaced with a cool wash of guilt. Despite his stubbornness, he had to admit Bilbo meant nothing by his comment. The Englishman knew naught of Erebor’s culture and ways, and it was completely unrealistic of Thorin to expect him to. The comment was a product of cultural ignorance, a simple miscommunication, and Thorin had overreacted. The Ereborean had revealed little details of himself, save for working construction, a job any able-bodied person could do.

Thorin should have handled the situation differently. He should not have let his temper get to him. Instead, he could have explained (or at least _tried_ ) how the silver plate was identified. The opportunity would have arisen to even show Bilbo a simple trick, so that he would not be swindled if he wished to replace the cutlery.

Bilbo would never have made such a comment had he known its callous nature. Thorin looked over to the man in question, watching the way his eyes lit up happily as he watched the children play. No, this was not a man of petty cruelties. Had Thorin only remembered that sooner, this whole catastrophe could have been avoided.

He realized he had been silently staring at his host only when a shrill cry redirected his attention. Fíli and Kíli pounced on little Frodo, savagely attacking him with endless tickles. The boy cried with laughter, begging them to stop. Pushing their hands away was a failed defense. For minutes the torture went on, until Frodo was gasping for breath as tears wet his cheeks.

“Wait, wait!” he gasped finally. “Please!”

Relenting momentarily, the brothers remained poised over Frodo’s prone form, ready to attack in an instant. Instead of running, the smaller boy leaned up to whisper conspiratorially. Whatever he said seemed to appease his captures, who nodded fervently.

In a flash, three small bodies charged Bilbo. The man yelped as he was thrown to the ground, having barely enough time to place his teacup safely on the table. Immediately tickling of their victim commenced, Bilbo’s larger frame no chance against the quick attacks. Thorin was ready to intervene, scold the children for acting so recklessly with an elder, when a loud, joyful laugh rang through the room.

Golden curls were in complete disarray as Bibo threw his head back. Lips pulled over white teeth as he laughed freely, without a care, body shaking with mirth. His eyes were scrunched tightly closed and his nose wrinkled adorably. Thorin gulped, the sweetly becoming sight eliciting a stirring deep in his stomach.

Luckily, his phone beeping soon provided a distraction. Bilbo was just beginning to gain the upper hand, holding Frodo under one arm and trying to attack Fíli and Kíli with the other as Thorin turned away. Opening the phone, the good mood that had been threatening to overtake him quickly extinguished as he noticed the late hour. The text was from Dís, asking for an update if they were going to be delayed. It was surprisingly calm, given her separation anxiety. Likely, the pretense was for his sake.

As much as it would please Thorin to stay longer, he knew they should return home. The bus ride alone would take 90 minutes, and Dís had probably already planned their dinner. Not to mention they were not technically invited for such a meal, and Thorin had, admittedly, been a bit rude to their host.

“Boys,” he called, the commanding voice halting not only the children, but Bilbo as well. The Baggins’ had apparently joined forces, the elder holding both Fíli and Kíli down while Frodo tickled both mercilessly. Now they all sat still and looked up expectantly.

Before even speaking further, Fíli and Kíli’s smiles slowly fell.

“Please, Uncle,” Kíli began immediately. He struggled out of Bilbo’s limp grip, falling to his knees dramatically in front of his uncle. His elder brother soon joined him and both clasped their hands, pouting with large, glassy eyes.

“Please, Uncle Thorin, please, please, please!” they begged in unison.

It was hard resisting his nephews, especially when they banded together (which was _always_ ). Thorin simply turned and walked towards the door, calling over his shoulder in their native tongue, “It’s time to leave.”

As he walked, he heard the loud, unhappy stomps of his nephews trailing. Once at the door, he immediately started tugging on his heavy boots. The boys followed suit, though with exaggerated slowness.

Bilbo approached him slowly, lips quirked to the side uncertainly. “Thorin,” he started, wiggling his nose before his eyes hardened with determination. “I’m sorry. I’m, ah,” he stuttered as he placed his palm firmly over his heart and gave a small bow. “I’m truly sorry, if I offended you in any way earlier.”

Though the gesture was beyond endearing, Thorin was consumed with guilt. To know his reaction earlier had caused Bilbo to apologize, as though Bilbo was the one at fault – it did not sit well with him.

Gazing directly into Bilbo’s hazel eyes, he spoke gravely, “Burushruka igbulul.” Even in his native language, the words were foreign on his tongue; he was not used to apologizing. Bilbo frowned slightly in bemusement, not understanding the words but feeling their intensity.

Thorin turned to his eldest nephew, ignoring Fíli’s surprised look. “Speak,” he commanded.

“He says…he is in pain.” It was hard for Fíli to convey the literal meaning, adding, “He means he’s sorry.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, ready to interject – most likely to brush off the apology, as he had done with Thorin’s thanks earlier, which Thorin would not allow.

“Bilbo,” he cut off quickly, reaching out a hand. He was surprised, though immensely satisfied, when the Englishman’s hand surpassed his own and instead grasped Thorin’s forearm. He had not expected the man to remember the Ereborean greeting from their first meeting.

“Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi ast,” he declared warmly, seeking reconciliation.

Though the language was harsh to Western ears, it was spoken with great affection. Even without knowing the words, Bilbo’s face split into a happy grin. An unknown pressure immediately released Thorin’s chest, replaced by a pleased warmth knowing all was forgiven.

When his nephew failed to translate, Thorin turned to the uncomfortable looking boy.

            Fíli fidgeted, shifting from one foot to another as he averted his gaze in embarrassment. “My uncle says...” he trailed off, knowing how silly it was going to sound to an outsider. “He prays that our Creator will protect you.”

            “Oh,” Bilbo sighed, perhaps a little dreamily.

The farewell was not uncommon in Erebor, often given to family and close friends, but such formality was nonexistent in England.

“I hope He, ah, does the same for you,” Bilbo mumbled lamely.

Thorin’s smile grew into a large grin, revealing white teeth under his dark beard. Squeezing Bilbo’s much smaller bicep in affection, only now did he realize they held each other’s arms still. Quickly dropping his hand, embarrassment threatened to flush his cheeks. Bilbo’s hand fell as well, lingering fingers leaving imprints of warmth along Thorin’s forearm.

They stared at each other, Bilbo returning Thorin pleased grin with a shy one. That is, until the not-so-private moment was broken.

“Uncle?” Kíli tugged on Thorin’s sleeve, impatient now that he was ready to go. The two men startled, turning from each other in embarrassment.

“Oh, well, yes,” Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly, busying himself with opening the door. Thorin attempted to brush imperviable wrinkles out of his nephews’ clothes, all too aware of his ears burning.

The children hugged as they said their goodbyes, already scheming for their next visit. Fíli held Kíli’s hand as they walked out the door first, Thorin gently saying goodbye to Frodo before turning to Bilbo.

Bilbo tucked a curl behind his ear as he stared at the floor bashfully, a becoming pink spreading across his cheeks.

“I thank you,” Thorin said, chin tilting down humbly. “I like seeing you again.”

Bilbo finally looked up, eyes bright as his wide smile revealed dimples on his cheeks. “I would like that, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akhminruki astû: thank you wholeheartedly.  
> Burushruka igbulul – literally, it pains me greatly. A phrase used to apologize.  
> Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi ast - May Mahal’s hammer shield you.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: By the time I finish this story, I’ll know more Khuzdul than Farsi, and will continue to be unable to communicate with most of my husband’s family. *sigh* Bagginshield Hell is aptly named.  
> Conversation between Dís and Thorin is in Khuzdul, even if it doesn’t say.

Thorin paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. Construction was hard work, only made harder by the bright sun beating down on him. His thick beard and long hair, tied at his nape, served only to increase his discomfort. He could feel the dampness pouring down the back of his neck, and desperately wished for a cool breeze to cool the perspiration.

The company he worked for was in the process of constructing a new apartment complex. The underground parking had already been created; now the aboveground was being built. Wooden planks were being erected, what would soon become the foundation of the building.

It was still a little unnerving to him that almost all buildings in this country were made out of wood. It seemed ridiculous – was no one worried about the fire hazard? Buildings in Erebor were created from stone and cement. Of course, when the blaze had come, it made little difference; the buildings themselves may have survived, but the people did not fare so well.

Thorin knew all too well the inferno-heated burn of stone.

Bending to grasp another plank of wood, Thorin’s phone began chiming. The sound didn’t stop with one ring, signaling a call instead of just a text. He straightened before pulling the phone from his back pocket, fumbling slightly with his large gloves.

Without bothering to look at the caller identification, he flipped it open and greeted in a gruff voice, “Shamukh.”

“Ah, hello?” came a hesitant voice on the other end.

In his surprise, Thorin dropped the phone, muttering curses as he stooped to quickly pick it up. As the phone was placed back at his ear, he could hear Bilbo’s soft, worried voice.

“Thorin, is everything alright?” he asked.

Thorin clenched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as he withheld a pain groan. “Yes,” he finally answered, though his belying voice was tight.

“I can – I can call back, if this is a bad time,” Bilbo offered.

“No,” Thorin insisted, perhaps too quickly and too roughly. Awkward silence met him. Loud warning beeps as a tractor reversed finally broke the spell.

“Ah, Thorin, are you at work right now?” Bilbo asked.

“I am,” Thorin answered, glaring at the tractor as if it had personally offended him. Give Bilbo’s next words, it clearly _had_.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Bilbo began gushing. “Please, I’ll let you go. We can talk later.”

Thorin adamantly replied, “No.”

A few seconds, and Bilbo finally breathed, “Oh. Well, then.” He trailed off, unsure of what to say, and Thorin resisted the urge to smack himself.

“No,” he said, trying to amend the miscommunication. “I am – I take break now. We will talk.”

Bilbo huffed a soft laugh, and Thorin couldn’t help but imagine his little nose twitching in its adorable manner. He made his way to the small bench down the block from the site that had become a makeshift break spot for the workers on site. Passing his supervisor, he signaled he was taking his lunch. The supervisor nodded his assent, unperturbed, though he did give Thorin a considering glance. Usually Thorin was the last to take lunch, working until he was told to break. For once anticipating the rest as more than just a temporary reprieve from work, Thorin detoured to grab his bagged food before walking to his destination.

A small humming reminded Thorin as to who exactly was on the other end. Cursing himself for keeping Bilbo waiting so rudely, his teeth grinded to keep his reprimand internal.

“Bilbo,” he said before his mind could think of something better.

“Yes?” came the immediate reply.

“I eat lunch,” he stated. It was an improvement, at least.

“I can let you go,” Bilbo offered politely.

“No,” Thorin insisted. “You stay. Talk.” Thorin was pretty sure conversation generally included less demands, but he was still a bit rusty. It certainly had nothing to do with his inherent ineptness for social situations. He sat at the bench, beginning to unpack the cold leftovers Dís sent him off with.

The small laugh he was rewarded with was a surprise. “I was just calling to, ah, see how you’re doing.”

“Good.”

There was another laugh, louder this time. “Do you mean it’s good I’m calling, or are you saying that you are, in fact, doing good?”

Thorin was thankful no one was around to see his neck flush. Had he been someone else, he may have made some coy affirmation for the former, initiating a flirtatious banter. Regrettably, he was Thorin Durin in the flesh; he simply said, “I am good.”

“Well that’s, ah,” Bilbo cleared his throat, “Good. That’s good.” At Thorin’s silence, he asked, “How are Fíli and Kíli?” He still pronounced their names with that endearing accent.

“Good,” he replied with a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

Apparently Thorin’s vocabulary had been limited to a single word, though perhaps Bilbo had been afflicted by a similar difficulty.

Bilbo seemed unperturbed by Thorin’s repetitive, monosyllabic answers however. Thorin thought it might be a good sign, that it showed Bilbo was quite interested in speaking to him.

Or, he may just be more polite than Thorin.

Yes, that was quite possible.

“And how’s work?” Bilbo asked patiently.

Thorin ripped a chunk of meat off the attached bone. “It is hot,” he said, finally adding variety to his responses. The weather seemed a simple topic, but still engaging enough to keep Bilbo on the line.

Bilbo let on a loud, aggravated sigh. There was a thumping, as if he had dramatically collapsed into a seat. “It’s horribly warm today, isn’t it?”

Thorin grunted, wondering vaguely if the sun was enough to warm his cold food.

“Earlier I went out to garden for a little while, and I ended up with a sunburn! It’s ridiculous. I should have known better, of course. I always burn so easily. This certainly isn’t the first time I’ve burnt just from gardening. Frodo was smart enough to sit in the shade, but I wasn’t so lucky.” Bilbo told his anecdote at a quick pace, sounding a bit flustered, but it meant Thorin had difficulty keeping up. The man suddenly gasped. “Oh goodness, here I am complaining about a little leisurely gardening, and you’re out working in this heat all day!”

“I do not –” Thorin bit off. “I like it,” he said instead.

Bilbo chuckled self-deprecatingly. “You like my complaining?”

“I like you talking,” he admitted, starting to enjoy the way a conversation through the phone seemed to embolden him slightly.

“Well,” Bilbo breathed. “That’s…good.”

Thorin laugh at the oft-repeated word, the rare response a silent shake of his shoulders.

“I suppose you wouldn’t be disagreeable to hearing me speak more, then?” Bilbo ventured.

Thorin struggled with the convoluted wording of the sentence. Of course, he could not bring himself to admit this, so he gave a noncommittal grunt.

The pleasure in Bilbo’s voice seemed hesitant when he spoke again, and Thorin knew he should have given a more firm response. “Would you like to meet at the park this time, perhaps?” he asked, quickly adding, “I’m sure the boys would love a day outside.”

“The boys,” Thorin repeated slowly.

“Yes, well, Frodo has been quite excited to meet with your nephews again. If that’s alright, of course.”

A day in the park with Bilbo…with Fíli and Kíli and Frodo in tow. It was unrealistic for him to have expected – hoped for – anything else.

He agreed, trying to quell the slight disappointment he felt with thoughts of Fíli and Kíli’s excited faces.

“When are you free?” Bilbo asked.

“I finish work in three days,” he answered.

“Alright…” There was silence for a few moments as Bilbo presumably did some thinking. Thorin took the time to finish his lunch, previously too preoccupied to pay attention to the dwindling time.

“How about Sunday, then?” Bilbo finally asked. “I’m sure it will be a bit cooler by then.”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed without hesitation.

“Have you ever been to Elliston Park?” Thorin hadn’t, though he told Bilbo he would be able to find it with the address. Bilbo promised to text it to him, adding there were many buses that passed by it. “I’ll bring a picnic lunch. Does that sound good?” Any food brought by Bilbo was certain to be wonderful, though it seemed unfair for him to provide everything.

“I will bring…” Thorin trailed off, unsure of what he could realistically offer. Not that he would ever tell Dís – unless he was hoping for an early grave – but Bilbo was clearly a superior cook. Beyond food, he really didn’t know what to take to a day at the park.

“Just bring yourself, Thorin.” Bilbo added shyly, “That will be more than enough.”

Thorin’s lips threatened to curve into a smile as stood from the bench and made his way back to the site, pace more sedate than usual. Though it was easier to suppress his happiness as he approached his coworkers.

“I go to work now,” he told the man.

“I’ll text you the address,” Bilbo promised. “Good-bye, Thorin.”

Thorin returned the farewell as he stooped to place his emptied lunch with his other belongings. His phone he kept in his back pocket, its distraction perhaps a little more worthwhile now.

 

Many hours and one blessed sunset later, Thorin opened the door to his apartment. Dís greeted him immediately, only to be blatantly ignored. Now, this wasn’t exactly uncommon – there were plenty of nights Thorin returned bone-tired, too exhausted and ill tempered to hold any semblance of a conversation. But tonight was different. Tonight he walked in with a frown on his face, phone held open right in front of his eyes as he scrutinized the screen with great intensity.

“Thorin?” she finally ventured. He shoved the phone at her in response. Slightly concerned, Dís glanced at the phone only to roll her eyes immediately. “ _Really_?” she groaned, though by this point she really shouldn’t be surprised.

“What is it?” Thorin asked as he rifled through the fridge, ultimately unsatisfied with everything he came across. That sentiment immediately carried with it guilt, and Thorin reminded himself to be grateful as he pulled some leftovers out.

“Thorin,” Dís drawled slowly, waiting until her brother turned towards her. “It’s an _address_ ,” she finally said with a look that clearly questioned his sanity.

She received a glare, though Thorin was too tired to put any real heat behind it. He sauntered back towards her, roughly pointing at a screen too small for his thick fingers.

“No, _this_ ,” he emphasized with repeated stabs at the end of the text. “It is not English,” he declared firmly.

“No, it’s not,” his sister agreed far too readily, causing Thorin’s neck to tingle forebodingly. “It’s a _smiley face_ , you ass!”

Thorin repeated the foreign phrase slowly, frown revealing his continued confusion.

“Look,” Dís sighed dramatically as she turned the phone to the side. “There’s the eyes,” she pointed at two parallel dots, “and that’s the smile.” She then smiled herself, pointing to her forcibly curved lips then back to the strange text replica.

“You are sure?” Thorin asked, still not completely convinced.

“For Mahal’s sake, Thorin!” Dís rolled her eyes, shoving the phone back at her brother in annoyance. “Gadra allâkh, Mahal hefsu binh!” she yelled.

Thorin raised his hands appeasingly before his sister went any further. “Calm yourself, Dís, I believe you,” he placated. Despite his words, he took another considering look at the phone, though now the resemblance was admittedly clearer. Rereading Bilbo’s words – _Can’t wait to see you_ – followed by the strange expression created a warm, content feeling in Thorin’s chest.

“Dís?” he called as his sister, having reached her limit for the day, walked away. “You send Bilbo _smile face_ back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamukh – hail (can also be used as a greeting and farewell)  
> Gadra allâkh, Mahal hefsu binh – Against stupidity, Mahal himself is helpless.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erebor is in Europe. Where do you guys think it is and why? Let me know your thoughts in the comments ;)
> 
> Leavesoflorien asked for bonding between Thorin and Bilbo and an endearing/adorable Khuzdul nickname, so you can blame her (or thank, I hope!) for the utter fluff you are about to read. :P

Dís had desperately wanted to join Thorin and the boys on their trip to the park. Ridden with guilt, Thorin had almost given in, but he couldn’t bear _another_ person preventing him from spending time with Bilbo. If it was up to him – not that he would admit this – even the _children_ wouldn’t be there. Alas, it would be a little suspicious to call Bilbo up and request that Frodo stayed home. Some sacrifices had to be made.

His guilt was assuaged with the knowledge that Dís wanted to come solely to tease him. In truth, she was quite relieved to have some time to herself.

True to Bilbo’s word, the bus dropped them off right in front of the park. Thorin sent off a quick text to Bilbo, a simple _here_ as apparently they were the first to arrive. Entrance crowded with clumps of milling visitors, Thorin grabbed his nephews and made his way inside.

Smooth pavement led them along dips and curves. Wooden benches lined the way, occupied with relaxed sightseers. Some jogged along the scenery, while others strolled leisurely after their playing children. Many more spread out on the grass, large blankets protecting their food and drink.

A _blanket_ , Thorin chided himself. That was something he could have easily contributed to this venture, instead of leaving everything to Bilbo. No doubt his ineptitude would be forgiven, but that did little to ease his self-directed admonishment.

Distraction soon came as Thorin’s phone beeped with a new message. _Great! Why don’t you guys find somewhere to sit? Frodo and I will find you soon._

Thorin glanced around appraisingly. This area was quite busy with people. Preferably, they would settle down somewhere more private. Squinting against the bright sun, he could see that further down the path was less crowded. Perhaps most patrons did not to wish to walk so far into the park, but Thorin was more than willing.

Before they could reach their destination, a shout came from behind. Thorin turned around, spotting a golden head below a waving hand. A raven-haired child quickly maneuvered out of the man’s grasp, rushing past Thorin with a hurried greeting to all but tackle Fíli and Kíli.

Bilbo followed, curls bouncing as he hurried down the small hill. Arriving in front of Thorin, he doubled over, hands on his knees. Cheeks pink with exertion, Bilbo slowly breathed in and out as he caught his breath.

“Well, hello,” he finally managed, only slightly winded.

Noticing the large basket Bilbo had dropped at his feet, Thorin stooped to pick it up. It was quite heavy, woven lid unable to close properly.

“Oh, you don’t –” Bilbo cut himself off with a huff as Thorin was already slipping the handle through his arm.

“It is good to see you,” Thorin greeted belatedly, a phrase he had admittedly practiced to perfection.

Bilbo’s eyes twinkled with excitement at the Ereborean’s correct words, grin wide enough to dimple his cheeks. “It is good to see you too, Thorin,” he responded earnestly.

As they walked on, Bilbo soon picked out a spot under a large tree, and Thorin dutifully placed the basket on the ground for preparation. A thick folded cloth was pulled from the depths, laid out to reveal a patchwork quilt.

“Do you want to eat now or later?” Bilbo asked.

The unanimous decision was cries of _now_ from Fíli and Kíli. Laughing, Bilbo waved everyone onto the blanket as he pulled out numerous containers. He had plates, cups, and cutlery, ceramic for the adults and plastic for the children. For drinks, there was a large bottle of ice water and a carafe of what Thorin correctly suspected was tea. Individually wrapped sandwiches were plentiful enough for everyone to enjoy two. A large bowl of salad with plenty of greens, nuts, and mushrooms was topped with some kind of dressing. Finally, Bilbo presented a myriad of fruits. Smooth green apples were easily identified, but others were a mystery to the Ereboreans. The mix was certainly colourful, with skins ranging orange, purple, red, and yellow.

The food, as expected, was delicious. None of the refugees had any interest in trying the salad – it was far too green – but Thorin insisted they all finish at least one serving. The boys upturned their noses but did as told. The sauce Bilbo added was tangy yet sweet, but Thorin didn’t think there was anything that could make green vegetables appetizing.

Once the food was done, the boys were immediately running off, disregarding Bilbo’s warning of aching bellies. The lake was just down the hill from them, and Thorin made sure to instruct the boys to not go near it. Bilbo stretched out with a content groan, extended legs crossing at the ankle.

“So how was your week, Thorin?” Bilbo asked conversationally.

“Good,” he replied simply. “How is your week?”

“How _was_ ,” Bilbo corrected, beginning to dig through the basket once more. This time, he pulled out a small notebook and a pencil. Flipping to a fresh page, he began writing.

When Bilbo continued to ignore his question, Thorin realized he was likely waiting for the correction to be made vocal. “How was your week?” he asked again, jaw clenching slightly.

“It was good, thank you. I did some gardening, as I told you, and Frodo helped me with chores around the house. We also added a few drawings to the story I’m currently writing for him. Now, how was work?”

“Good,” came the grunted reply.

Bilbo sighed slightly, looking up from his page. “Thorin, you need to say more than that when someone asks you a question. Yes, if I was a stranger just asking out of politeness, I imagine you would like to keep it short. But, well, I’d like to think we’re more than that. When I ask you something, I genuinely want to know the answer.” He watched Thorin for a moment, flickering eyes waiting for acknowledgement. Then he asked again, softer, “How was work?”

“Work is hard,” Thorin offered.

“ _Was_ ,” Bilbo amended. “You’re finished work, correct? So I’m asking about the past. When you speak about the past, you use _was_. If you were working right now, I would ask ‘how _is_ work.’”

Thorin had heard this all before from Dís, but it never seemed to stick. His seeming inability to memorize simple rules and words frustrated Thorin to no end, ultimately contributing to his lack of learning.

As Bilbo continued writing on the paper, Thorin grew a little suspicious. Surreptitiously leaning forward, he glanced at the large title: _Conversation in English_.

“For me?” he asked.

Bilbo glanced up, doing a double take at Thorin’s proximity. The latter immediately straightened with a slight grumble.

“Yes,” Bilbo replied nonchalantly as he returned to his notes.

“You should not,” Thorin insisted.

Bilbo sighed, as if longsuffering, before dropping the pencil and turning to his companion. “Thorin, I want to do this for you. Like I said, I hope we’re more than just strangers by now. Maybe even,” he paused for a moment, eyes dropping as he chewed his lip shyly. “Friends. And friends help each other.”

Thorin swallowed thickly. Not only did Bilbo _want_ to be his friend, but he was willing to put time into teaching the struggling foreigner. Obviously the lesson was planned; Thorin doubted the notepad and paper were mere coincidence.

“You are no friend,” Thorin declared firmly, feeling truly blessed. He had paused to come up with an English equivalent of what he wanted to say, but Bilbo’s hopeful smile rapidly fell, brows knitting in hurt. “You are buhêl,” he amended quickly. “I do not know English word. You are great friend of me.”

“Buhêl,” Bilbo repeated softly, shooting Thorin a delighted smile before flipping a page. He repeated the word again, writing down in the notepad. Thorin gently corrected his pronunciation, Bilbo repeatedly echoing. He erased some of his writing, replacing it once he had the word correct.

Thorin knew he shouldn’t have explained the word to Bilbo, much less allowed him to write it down. But as he looked at his friend, tongue caught between small teeth, brows knit in concentration as Bilbo went over the word again and again, Thorin knew he could not deny Bilbo anything.

The lesson continued, with Bilbo asking Thorin about his day. He had the refugee explain his daily routine, describe their current surroundings, and list colours. Bilbo’s corrections were always gentle, never patronizing, and his patience was unending. Thorin was not blessed with such tolerance, running an aggravated hand through his long hair as Bilbo reminded him how to join words to create a grammatically sound sentence for what felt like the umpteenth time.

Before Thorin could say something he would no doubt regret, Frodo toddled over, eyes wide and lip jutting out dejectedly. Crouching next to Bilbo, he looked impossibly small as he curled in on himself.

Bilbo ran a hand through his young cousin’s hair. “What’s wrong, my boy?” he asked gently.

Frodo mumbled something Thorin didn’t catch, prompting Bilbo to look passed their picnic. Following his gaze, Thorin saw Fíli and Kíli crouched together about fifteen feet from the water. Kíli reached out a hand, trying to fool one of the geese into thinking he had food. Unsurprisingly, his plan did not work, prompting Fíli to shove him playfully.

“Well, did you ask them nicely if you could play somewhere else?” Bilbo’s question prompted Thorin to back from his nephews, watching as Frodo shook his head.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asked slowly, wondering what the problem could be.

Bilbo glanced to Thorin for a moment, before returning his worried gaze to the small boy. “He doesn’t like water,” he explained tightly.

Given how upset Frodo looked, Bilbo’s words seemed to be putting it lightly.

“Fíli, Kíli!” Thorin called without delay, waving the boys back. The eldest boy grabbed his brother’s hand, running over together. Thorin glanced around them, spotting a playground around the bend of the lake. Pointing to it, he instructed, “We will go there.”

Easygoing as they were, the brothers excitedly pulled Frodo to his feet. Together the three started along the path, which thankfully kept them well away from the water’s edge.

Thorin sat up and grasped the edge of the quilt to fold it. He was stopped when Bilbo placed a hand over his, smooth fingertips gliding over rough, cracked skin. Thorin stared at their hands, transfixed by the pale complex barely covering a tan expanse.

“Thank you,” Bilbo murmured gently, lightly squeezing Thorin’s large fingers before pulling away. They finished packing in silence, Thorin slightly overwhelmed by the action. Hand-to-hand contact was a great intimacy in his homeland, and even the knowledge that Bilbo did not mean it as such did little to dim the pleased warmth in his chest.

“Frodo’s parents died a few months ago,” Bilbo confessed as they made their way. Thorin had known this since their first meeting, but as Bilbo continued to speak, it was with the low, stilted speech of someone confessing something deeply private. “A flash flood forced their car off a bridge. They couldn’t get out in time. They, ah, drowned.” His voice caught, forcing him to clear his throat. “Frodo has been terrified of water ever since.”

“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Thorin spoke gravely in his native tongue. He knew the words would fall short when he tried in English, but he spoke nevertheless. “I am sorry.”

Bilbo sniffed lightly, gaze averted. “Thank you, Thorin,” he murmured.

“Kurusika Mahal shumru. They are with Mahal now.”

Had the topic not been so grave, Thorin may have noticed his grammar had greatly improved since Bilbo’s lesson. As it was, Bilbo’s lips twitched in an effort to smile in a response dictated as necessary by the good manners ingrained in him.

They lapsed into silence as Thorin pondered Bilbo’s divulgence. The refugee and the Englishman were surprisingly similar. Thorin was reminded of Víli, circumstances forcing Thorin to have a greater responsibility in the lives of his nephews, much like Bilbo had taken in his younger cousin.

“Fíli and Kíli have no father,” Thorin said suddenly. He surprised himself with his words, yet he could not find it in himself to regret it. It felt right, telling Bilbo more of himself, letting the man know he was not alone. “He died.” Bilbo remained silent, allowing Thorin to say as little or as much as he felt comfortable with. “He was killed when we leave Erebor. Dís and me, we are alone. I do not know how…being father for Fíli and Kíli is hard.”

“I know what you mean,” Bilbo confessed softly. “I try my best to be there for Frodo, but I don’t know where to draw the line. I don’t mean to replace his parents, but at the same time he needs structure and discipline. He’s so young, and he’s been through so much, and I,” Bilbo cut off, chewing his thoughtfully. “I think I fail him sometimes.”

“We all have mistake.” Thorin attempted to comfort Bilbo, assuage his friend’s guilt, but he would have struggled to do so even in his native tongue. Trying to convey his empathy in English only made it that much harder. “You are good. Good to Frodo. And Fíli and Kíli. You are buhêl.”

He finally smiled at Thorin’s last word, a shadow of his usual cheeriness, but it felt like an accomplishment nonetheless.

“You’re good too, you know,” Bilbo said, nodding towards the park. The boys had all clambered onto a swing and were currently seeing who could go the highest.

Thorin’s shoulders stiffened as he looked away, jaw tight with discomfort. He could not yet bring himself to confess the fallacy of such a claim before Bilbo continued.

“They practically worship the ground you walk on, Thorin,” he said emphatically, seeing his friend’s discomfort. “Frodo’s told me so many stories of you, because your nephews never stop singing your praises!”

Now Thorin groaned, looking up with pained eyes only long enough to ask, “What they are saying?” The Ereborean vowed to have a talk with his nephews, ensure they weren’t spreading grand embellishments.

Bilbo’s lips twitched, eyes dancing with mirth before the humour quickly died. “Fíli doesn’t remember everything clearly. It’s more like vague impressions; he speaks of pain, wandering, gnawing hunger. But what he _does_ remember with great clarity is his uncle. The hero who did anything and everything to keep them safe, to get them here.”

Thorin was immediately shaking his head, mind burning with overwhelming guilt knowing his nephew hero-worshipped a false ideal. He could not list the times he had failed them on his fingers, and the fact that they were here had little to do with his own skill.

“I wish I was good for Fíli and Kíli,” he whispered, throat betraying with its sudden thickness. “I am not.” The statement was short, simple, yet so hard to say. It was all his fears, all his doubt, summed into far too little, far too simple words. Now spoken, Thorin felt exposed, more so to his own self than anyone else.

Bilbo stopped walking, turning towards his companion. He took in the man’s clenched fists shaking from intensity, brows drawn tightly together. Hard blue eyes refused to look up, such juxtaposition to Thorin’s usual eye contact, forceful and unwavering. It was as though the conversation had left the refugee physically pained.

“I don’t think you see it,” Bilbo whispered, slow and disbelieving as if truly affronted by the realization. “You’re _good_ , Thorin. A good uncle, a good friend, a good person.” His eyes searched Thorin for acknowledgement with such earnestness it was practically pleading. When his words continued to be unaccepted, Bilbo went on, “I wish you could see yourself, the way your nephews do. The way _I_ do. You’ve been through so much, and yet you’re selfless, and kind, and…” Bilbo trailed off, eyes distant as he smiled. Looking back to Thorin, he continued determinedly, “Don’t doubt yourself, Thorin. You are truly remarkable.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo, overwhelmed by the impromptu speech. Emotion tightened his throat, creating a lump that could not be easily swallowed. He wasn’t sure what he had done to impress such honourable character, but he knew Bilbo spoke from the heart.

Since arriving in this country, Thorin had felt overwhelmingly as though he was on his own. Dís was always there, reassuring him, supporting him, but he did not like to burden her with his problems, especially as she grieved for her husband. Never had he had someone to turn to in earnest. Until now. Until this man came into his life, a true blessing from Mahal. Disguised as a soft, naïve, comfortable creature, inside Bilbo had a pure, kind heart and wiseness beyond an outwardly idle life. The two men were still getting to know each other, yet Bilbo spoke of Thorin with such surety, such confidence, vouching for his character as though it were undoubtable.

“Astu gamut khed. Astu tessu,” Thorin breathed. He was powerless to stop the words, the truth of his realization demanding to be spoken.

Bilbo blinked in surprise, having watched the tumult of emotions as Thorin lost himself in reflection. “What?”

Instead of explaining, Thorin stepped closer, staring at the man in front of him in amazement. Large hands dwarfed Bilbo’s shoulders, surprisingly soft despite their size. Thorin came closer yet, slowly bowing his head towards Bilbo. Bilbo floundered slightly, mouth falling open in shock before he quickly snapped his jaw shut, eyelids fluttering closed.

Thorin pressed his forehead against Bilbo’s, unaware of the latter’s confusion and slight disappointment. At first, the intimacy of the gesture was lost on his friend in the exchange of cultures. But as Thorin gently nudged his forehead, warm breath fanning Bilbo’s open lips, the tenderness of such proximity began to spread through the Englishman. Bilbo sighed softly, hands coming to grip Thorin’s arms, holding the taller man in place.

Eventually Thorin pulled away, though he remained intimately close. “Ghivashel,” he exhaled, staring at Bilbo with astonished blue eyes. “I have found you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kurusika Mahal shumru – Joining Mahal’s guard (euphemism for dying/death)  
> Astu gamut khed – You are a wonderful person (formal you)  
> Astu tessu – You are everything (formal you)  
> Ghivashel – treasure of all treasure
> 
> Majority of the Khuzdul is thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar. But not all of it, so I can't always speak for its accuracy, sorry if there's any mistakes.


	7. Chapter Seven

Thorin had received a text a few days ago from no other than Bilbo. The message had been quite abrupt, sans greeting. It had simply read: _Bring the boys over for another play date. I need to talk to you._

Thorin didn’t need to be fluent in English to understand this was quite out of character for the Englishman, and warning bells went off in his head. His mind immediately leapt to the last time they had seen each other. Chest clenching, he remembered his words, all but confessing his regard for the other man. A part of him, admittedly paranoid, worried if Bilbo had somehow figured out what Thorin said, and was displeased.

Frustrated by his own confusion, Thorin responded by shoving the phone at his sister – something she was exasperatedly getting used to – and demanding to know why Bilbo needed to talk to him.

Dís had given him an incredulous look that bordered on shame for being related to the fellow Ereborean. “Mi targê!” she cried. “How am I supposed to know?”

When Thorin had pointed out she had no beard to swear by, she may or may not have boxed his ears like a child.

Thorin would go on to deny it.

In the end, Dís proved unhelpful. She suggested Thorin simply _ask_ Bilbo himself, but that was too obvious. His reluctance certainly had nothing to do with his paranoid fretting. In the end, he was left with one choice: to go see Bilbo in person, and make amends if necessary.

 

Thorin counted the days before meeting Bilbo with barely restrained restlessness. Finally (and to everyone’s relief), he stood at the door knocking. As the door opened, Thorin braced himself for, well, he wasn’t completely sure. Yelling, screaming, perhaps a scornful glare. Instead, Bilbo shot them all a tired smile and ushered them in. After politely removing their shoes, the boys went with Frodo to the sitting room while Bilbo led Thorin to the parlour. It was exactly like the last time they were here.

Until Thorin sat in an armchair, and instead of serving tea, Bilbo pressed a fist to his pursed lips and stood, silent. He opened his mouth, releasing a shaking finger. Then he frowned, once more pressing the hand to his mouth. After a moment, he dug something out of his pocket.

“Would you look at this?” Bilbo all but threw a piece of crumpled paper at Thorin. The Ereborean would normally be angered by such audacity, but he could clearly see Bilbo’s distress. Instead he unfolded the paper, inwardly marveling at the glossiness as he flattened it against his thigh. The page was covered in flowing, curved script. At the bottom were purple flowers, elegant but meaningless to the Ereborean. Thorin squinted, trying to decipher the words. After a moment he recognized it was, in fact, English, but he had never seen the language written in such an ostentatious manner. Before he had even read the first word, Bilbo was yelling again.

“I mean, really! What is he thinking?” Thorin didn’t get a chance to figure out what _who_ was thinking, as the paper was snatched from his hands. Bilbo held it out in front of him, bellowing a dramatic rendition, “Mr. and Mrs. Longo Baggins and Mr. and Mrs. Blanco Bracegirdle cordially invite you to attend the marriage of Otho Sackville-Baggins and Lobelia Bracegirdle.” Bilbo stops in his tracks, turning back to the bemused foreigner with a look of absolute disgust. “Can you _believe_ it?”

Thorin glanced around the room, as if seeking help. Even in their portraits, Bilbo’s parents avoided his gaze. Defeated, he finally turned back to Bilbo. The man was looking at him with arms crossed expectantly. Thorin opened his mouth, unsure of what to say. Finally, he croaked a dubious, “…No?”

“Thank you!” Bilbo shouted immediately, arms thrown up in exasperation. “I must have the most clot-headed cousin in existence, if he is seriously going through with this! Otho is all right, but Lobelia… that woman is a shrew! A nasty, gossiping, greedy soulless – _thing_ , that I would hate to call a human being.”

Bilbo paused in his pacing, turning to Thorin with a dawning realization. “My flatware! She’s the one!” He made to dash out of the room, but his guest’s confused call had him turning back. “She always had her eyes on my parents’ silverware. I caught her trying to make off with my spoons once, you know. She’s always been five fingered. I wouldn’t be surprised if she switched my parents’ silverware with plated ones! I’m telling you, Thorin,” he turned to the man in question, unnervingly intense in his earnest persuasion. “I _know_ those used to be real antique silver. None of that _plated_ nonsense.”

Thorin was helpless to simply watch, left without any guidance. He concentrated on the words, for if he could just _understand_ what Bilbo was saying, he could at least attempt to give advice.

“I know the first thing she’ll do,” Bilbo lamented, wagging an angry finger, “Is convincing him to take Bag End! She’s been saying for years that it should have gone to Otho instead of me – and how that can _possibly_ make sense in her warped, greedy mind, I have no clue! And my cousin, Yavanna bless him but he’s completely wrapped around her finger!”

Finally, the words clicked in Thorin’s head. And his blood immediately ran cold.

“They take your home?” he asked dangerously low, fingers digging in to the soft fabric of the armrests.

Bilbo seemed completely oblivious to Thorin’s ominous demeanour. “Well, she’ll certainly try,” he said flippantly. “Even though they really have no legal basis.”

The man sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face tiredly. As he turned back to his guest, he froze at what he saw. For Thorin was glaring angrily, lips curved back in a menacing scowl.

“No!” Thorin yelled. “They will not take your home!”

“Thorin –” Bilbo started, only to be cut off with a snarl.

“I will not let them.” The sincerity of his words startled Thorin himself. He knew not how he could possibly help, knowing nothing of property rights in this country. But he would find a way, _they_ would find a way, for he could never stand by and watch another person have their home taken away. Thorin knew all too well that profound loss, the wandering displacement that could never be filled again.

A flood of nostalgic pain slowly subdued the passionate anger raging in his chest. Thorin’s shoulders drooped as his head bowed in defeat, voice bitter as he spoke, “I… have no home. My home is gone.”

He refused to look up as Bilbo, quite overwhelmed with the unusual display, slowly approached. “Thorin,” the man tried, voice soothingly soft. A hesitant hand was placed over the Ereborean’s. Thorin’s muscles spasmed from clenching the chair so hard, and Bilbo’s stroking thumb subdued the tense grip into releasing the feeble wood.

“No one’s going to take Bag End from me,” Bilbo stated firmly.

Thorin frowned, resentment battling confusion. “You said –”

“No, Thorin, I was just exaggerating. Ah, angry,” Bilbo corrected, using plainer terms. “I’m angry. I didn’t mean it.”

Thorin’s eyes flickered uncertainly as he watched Bilbo, but eventually he nodded. “Good.”

Immensely relieved, an unknown tightness released Thorin’s chest as he accepted the man’s words. Yet it did nothing to stem the agony of knowing his own home was lost beyond redemption. The pain was only made worse by the self-flagellation he condemned himself to, knowing so much loss could have been prevented, had he only been _better_ , had he only tried _harder_ , had he only –

“Forgive me,” Bilbo’s forlorn tone broke Thorin from his debasing tirade. As Thorin looked up, bemused, he met his host’s pained eyes. “I’ve been terribly selfish, yelling at you about such a silly thing. It doesn’t even matter, really, and you have so many –”

“Stop,” Thorin commanded, cutting Bilbo off as he worked himself up, the small man not even pausing to breathe in his admission. “I like you angry.” As the words left his mouth, Thorin groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Knowing that didn’t sound right, he tried again. “I like to hear _you_. Even angry.”

“Oh,” Bilbo exhaled, nose wiggling as he looked down at his feet. “Well then, I have something to ask you, actually.” His thumbs hooked under his suspenders as he looked up at Thorin coyly through thick eyelashes.

Thorin inclined his chin, silently directing Bilbo to go on.

“Well, I was wondering if maybe you’d… be my plus one.” Whatever he said seemed very important, given the way Bilbo stared at Thorin with wide, expectant eyes.

Thorin worked his jaw, considering. In all honestly, he had absolutely no idea what this meant.

Bilbo watched the man, waiting for an answer. Quite belatedly, he realized how unfamiliar the phrase must be.

“Ah, well, it’s basically…” Bilbo cleared his throat, nodding to himself shortly as if preparing himself. “Would you be my date?”

“Date,” Thorin repeated slowly. He did not know this word either; while Dís often teased him about going on _dates_ with Bilbo, she always used the Khuzdul word. Thus, he did not understand the English equivalent. “I do not know,” he admitted.

The bright hope in Bilbo’s eyes dulled, quickly being replaced with panic. “Oh, goodness!” he exclaimed, hands waving around helplessly. “I just completely assumed you – I mean, I didn’t even ask if you – well, what your, ah, preferences are!”

A dull ache pulsated in Thorin’s temples, the constant confusion and misunderstanding running his patience thin. “I do not know what you say,” he clarified through clenched teeth.

“Oh, you mean – you don’t know what a date is?” Thorin hated admitting it, but seeing the relief on Bilbo’s face was an unintended consolation. “Well, I’m ah, basically asking if you’ll…go with me.” He looked up at Thorin, whose eyes were still narrowed in mounting exasperation. “Will you go with me?” he asked more simply. “To the wedding?”

Thorin knew not the word _wedding_ , but he was quite sure he understood the concept from all Bilbo had said today. At the very least, Bilbo was asking Thorin to go _somewhere_ with him, and he wasn’t going to miss such an opportunity.

“Yes,” he replied immediately. “It would be my pleasure,” he added sincerely in his native tongue, lips curving upwards.

Bilbo let out a shaky, pleased laugh. He collapsed on a neighbouring armchair, head thrown back in relief, all the ire from today seemingly drained at last.

“We go…for date?” Thorin asked.

For some reason, the question seemed to fluster the smaller man. His head shot forward, wide eyes quickly averting as a flush spread across his cheeks.

The question was ignored altogether, a very obvious topic change being made instead. “Frodo has already asked if he could stay at home. It’s a little too much, I think. The last time all our extended family came together was at the funeral. Hmm, I’ll have to find a sitter for him,” Bilbo rambled, quickly explaining the concept of _babysitter_ as best as he could. Lamenting, he continued, “I’d leave him with his Took relatives, but Frodo’s been quite withdrawn from the rest of our family since his parents’ passed. They seem to overwhelm him. I’ll have to find a stranger, then.” Frowning at the floor, Bilbo’s fingers twisted and untwisted nervously. “He really doesn’t like strangers.”

“Dís,” Thorin offered.

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo asked politely.

“Dís, my sister,” he clarified. “She can watch Frodo.”

“Oh, no,” Bilbo said automatically. “I couldn’t impose.”

“Yes,” Thorin insisted stubbornly. “Fíli and Kíli be so happy.”

The offer was contemplated for a moment before Bilbo sighed, though the relief was clear in his pleased smile. “If your sister agrees, and Frodo as well, then I will gladly take you up on your offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mi targê - by my beard.
> 
> Quite a few people immediately pointed the finger at Lobelia for the spoon incident three chapters ago! Good guesses everyone ☺


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything spoken between Dís and Thorin is in Khuzdul unless stated otherwise.

Thorin didn’t wait long to ask Dís what a _date_ was. And by that, he meant he asked her the moment he was through the door.

Dís looked up at him from hugging her sons, blinking owlishly. “ _Date_?” she repeated in English. Her expression of bemusement quickly morphed into a sly grin. She explained the word, watching as her brother’s eyes lit up. He didn’t bother to hide his happiness; his mouth curved into a grin, bearded lips parting to show shining teeth.

“Bilbo asked you on a date finally?” Dís predicted, pushing Fíli and Kíli towards their room to play.

Thorin’s chin lifted haughtily. “He did.”

Dís squealed with excitement, clutching her brother’s shoulders tightly. His hands lifted, gently grasping her arms as he brought their foreheads together.

The moment of tender, sibling affection was soon broken as Dís’ eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“If you’re asking me what a date means…you didn’t _know_ he asked you?”

Pulling away, he groaned. “Dís…”

“What did you say?” she demanded.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Thorin slowly said, “I told him I didn’t understand.”

“For Mahal’s sake, Thorin!” Dís swore.

“What would you have me do?” he asked his sister through clenched teeth.

Dís put her hands on her hips, glare more lethal than Thorin could ever hope to emulate. “Text him,” she growled.

“And say what?” he snapped back.

“Oh, I don’t know! Maybe _can’t wait for our date_?” Dís threw her hands up, turning around and taking a few steps to cool down.

Thorin took out his phone, contemplating her suggestion. Bilbo _had_ originally suggested the date, so it was not like Thorin would be putting himself out completely blind. But what if Bilbo mistook his message as Thorin simply reusing the word he had heard without actually understanding its meaning?

The conflict was soon forgotten as Thorin noticed he had an unread text. It was from Bilbo, though addressed to Dís. Scanning the message quickly, Thorin then handed the phone to his sister.

“What do you want me to –” she cut off as she saw the text. “Mahal give me patience,” she muttered under her breath. “Truly, Thorin, I should start demanding _payment_ for how much I translate between you two!” Thorin rolled his eyes and gestured impatiently. As Dís read, she looked up with an incredulously raised brow. “Do you even know where you’re going?” His look said it all, and Dís groaned in frustration, nonverbally proclaiming Thorin’s hopelessness. “It’s a wedding.”

“I knew that,” Thorin grunted, though the exasperated look he received made it clear she completely doubted that.

“Thorin!” Dís exclaimed suddenly. “You don’t have anything to wear!”

 

That is how Thorin wound up at a thrift store, trailing after his sister miserably. Fíli and Kíli had run off to the toys section the moment they entered, already acquainted with the layout. Dís always came here for their clothing; she was so familiar she even knew they would be having a sale today: thirty percent off everything. Apparently she always made sure to come in on sale days, when she bought the whole family new clothes and other necessities, and occasionally splurged on some toys for her sons.

Thorin had tried fighting Dís on this, but she was insistent – he needed something to wear. Thorin was determined to at least make sure it was not too expensive. The money he made was to put food in the mouths of his nephews, not to be wasted on petty fashion. Dís was unwavering, pointing out that it was not only his first date, but also a _wedding_. Bilbo would likely be quite displeased if he showed up in a long-sleeved shirt and loose trousers.

His sister went straight to an empty checkout, asking where to find wedding clothes for men. The clerk ended up showing them herself, guiding them to the back of the store past huge, fluffy white dresses.

As it turned out, English wedding attire was strange, to say the least. The siblings shared matching frowns as they picked at the outfits.

“They’re so _black_ ,” Dís murmured in their native tongue. Thorin grunted his agreement. “It’s a wedding, not a funeral!”

She turned to the saleswoman, switching languages. “This is truly what the English wear to weddings?” she asked, tone dripping with disdain.

The worker was clearly thrown off by the question, stammering and blinking wildly. “Yes!” she insisted, pulling out a sample outfit. “There are different types, of course. Pants and a jacket are very simple. You can also layer it vest if you’d like. Sorry, sir, are you looking for a suit or a tuxedo?”

Dís answered quickly, “What’s the difference?”

“Well,” the saleswoman sighed. “A suit is certainly more common, but a tuxedo is much more classic.” She eyed Thorin consideringly. “Are you a part of the wedding party?”

Dis answered once again, “He is going for a date.”

“Best off with a simple suit, then.” She pulled a few off the rack, holding them up against Thorin’s body in deliberation. Even Dís had no idea what the girl was discerning from this.

“He doesn’t know his size, does he?” she stage-whispered to Dís.

The woman shrugged. “Large?” she offered.

Apparently this was the wrong answer, given the heavy sigh that came from the retailer. The sizes were estimated, and soon Thorin was shoved towards a changing room, arms full of identical clothing. Most couldn’t get past his bulky limbs, but he finally found one that seemed to fit. He exited the small room, pulling his long hair from under the collar.

The saleswoman was on him instantly, fussing and tutting. She made some adjustments, and then asked Thorin to raise his arms, which could not reach his shoulders. Clucking her tongue, the woman shook her head in disapproval.

“What’s wrong?” Dís asked. To the Ereboreans, it seemed satisfactory. Strange, certainly, but good enough.

“His movement will be restricted, especially if he wants to dance.”

Dís translated, prompting Thorin to grumble under his breath, “I won’t be dancing.”

Despite the saleswoman’s misgivings, the suit was chosen. Mainly because Thorin flat-out refused to try on another. According to their adviser, a white shirt was typically worn under the jacket, but Dís picked out a dark blue. The shade sent a mild pang of nostalgia in Thorin’s heart; had history been more forgiving, Thorin and his family would be draped in the royal colour.

Returning to the checkout counter at last, Thorin found solace in the torture finally being complete. Only for the saleslady to gasp and turn around, startling the customers.

“Do you have shoes?” she demanded.

Thorin looked down, eyeing his steel-toed boots. Their clothing being so different, it was obvious the footwear would be too.

“Please show us what you have,” Dís requested. Thorin groaned as he was dragged around once more, his muttered prayers for release unanswered.

But all in all, it wasn’t as bad as Thorin had expected. The outfit, with the discount applied, came to eight pounds. Other than that, no one in the family really needed new clothing, and Dís was able to throw in a few new games for Fíli and Kíli.

 

It was the day of the wedding, and to say Thorin was nervous was a bit of an understatement. Dís mocked him endlessly for his pre-date jitters, only darkening Thorin’s already blackmood. But he needed her help to prepare, and thus had no choice but to submit to her teasing.

Simply putting the outfit together had taken longer than either had expected. Thorin hated the shoes most of all; they pinched at his toes, rubbed against the backs of his ankles, and had terribly hard soles. Dís had advised Thorin to wear them in the days leading up to the wedding, even if only around the house, in order to break them in. Her advice, of course, had been ignored. Thorin was now consumed with regret, though he refused to let his sister see this – admitting defeat meant sentencing yourself to a lifetime of misery when it came to Dís.

In all their effort to prepare, neither had thought of inquiring about the traditional wedding hairstyle.

Needless to say, Thorin was panicking just a _bit_.

“Nadad,” Dís soothed her brother gently. “We will style your hair in the way of our people.”

“Our people?” Thorin repeated glumly. “I am not attending a wedding in Erebor, Dís!”

Dís rolled her eyes, accustomed to yet always vexed by her brother’s theatrics. “I have yet to see an Englishman with hair longer than his ears! I doubt they do anything with their hair at all; it is too short.”

“Are you suggesting I cut my hair off, or that I leave it unadorned?”

Snorting, the woman shoved her brother playfully. “ _Neither_ , mazam mê. I’m suggesting I braid your hair.” Thorin immediately opened his mouth to protest, likely with unnecessarily uncouth language, but Dís held up a halting finger. “If you go with your hair down, casual as every other day, Bilbo will think you put absolutely no effort into his family’s celebration.”

Thorin mulled over his sister’s words, ultimately deciding he could not risk Bilbo’s displeasure. He begrudgingly submitted to his sister’s fussing, though he was soon hypnotized by the slow, practiced strokes. Ignoring the itchy, strange outfit he was forced into, it almost felt like Thorin was home once more. His family was preparing for some formal event, perhaps Fíli’s birthday party or a celebration for Frerin’s promotion at work.

Dís began with simply combing her fingers through Thorin’s thick wavy locks. As Ereboreans took pride in their hair, there were no knots to disentangle. Normally the hair would be oiled before braiding, giving a glossy sheen and softening natural thick strands into silky smoothness. They had to forego the oil, regrettably, though neither mentioned it.

The first braid Dís wove together started at the back of his crown, a thick four-strand rope. Next she parted the hair left at the front of his head, pulling back each braid to fall over his shoulders. But when she began tugging three lengths in front of his ear, Thorin grasped her hands, stilling their movement.

“No.”

“Thorin, please,” Dís murmured gently.

“Namad, you know I cannot,” he insisted firmly.

“Why not?” she countered. “We are not in Erebor anymore.” She continued more softly, voice barely a whisper as her eyes wet. “It would make them so proud.”

Thorin swallowed, looking away from his sister. The braids she intended to plait signified his status as heir of the Line of Durin. After his grandfather had been usurped, anything bearing the insignia, or even just semblance, of their lineage had been forbidden. Never had Thorin been allowed the honour of wearing such braids. In his entire lifetime, it had been treasonous to do so. But his sister was right – Erebor was gone, forever lost from their reach. To wear the braids would bring honour to his fallen family members, commemorate their memory even if no one would understand the significance.

With a grave tilt of his chin, Thorin accepted the sacred tradition. Dís did not smile as she plaited a braid in front of each of Thorin’s ears, lips pursed solemnly, but her blue eyes shone brightly.

Without pausing to admire her handiwork, Dís darted out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a small, engraved box. Lifting the lid revealed an assortment of beads, all bearing the Royal insignia. The runes were detailed beautifully, cut into the silver with meticulous precision. The silver was tarnished slightly from years of disuse, but it was no less moving to the siblings.

Silence fell as Dís applied the beads to Thorin’s braided hair one by one. Both felt the solemn air, though neither chose to speak. When she finished, Dís embraced her older brother, forehead nudging against his for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin’s hair crisis is thanks to Shiningheart_of_ThunderClan for saying they would like to see Thorin with braids at the wedding ☺
> 
> If there's ANYTHING you guys would like to see happen, comment and let me know!!! (Can anyone tell I have total writer's block for after the wedding?? Lol)
> 
> Nadad - brother  
> Mazam mê – you brute  
> Namad - sister


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ:
> 
> If you guys read a Chapter 10 for this story, that was a mistake. It was a part of 26 Days of Bagginshield and I mistakenly posted it here. Sorry for any confusion. No, Bilbo is not magically a lab assistant. BUT this chapter - NINE - is still new everyone! So please enjoy.
> 
> *DIES OF SHAME*
> 
> Also thanks to the reader who pointed out my mistake!

Ten minutes before five o’clock, Thorin stood outside in his suit, Dís, Fíli, and Kíli grinning beside him. The boys were simply excited to see their friend, but Dís couldn’t wait to meet her brother’s hopeless crush (and tease Thorin mercilessly).

Thorin checked his watch again, nerves trying the miniscule patience he inherently possessed. Dís chided him, reminding Thorin that he had been the one to insist they leave the house almost _twenty minutes_ before Bilbo was even due to arrive.

After a few held breaths, much pacing, and even moreirksome foot tapping, a light blue car finally pulled up to the curb. Thorin’s relief at seeing a small, dark haired child fly out the door and run to his nephews was quickly replaced with gut-twisting trepidation.

He was going on a date.

_A date._

With Bilbo Baggins.

The driver door opened, and there the man was – curls brushed to shining perfection, wide smile radiant, hazel eyes bright with excitement.

The Ereborean could only stare in breathless amazement as Bilbo approached, biting his lip nervously. He wore a maroon jacket over a green waistcoat. An off-white linen shirt peeked from underneath, with a light green ascot tucked inside. His breeches were tan, cutting off a few inches above his ankle to show a shocking amount of lightly tanned skinned before his leather dress shoes. Thorin knew nothing of style, as Dís would happily remind him – especially style in this foreign land – but even to him, the colours were obviously incompatible. Yet somehow, the strange matching was quite becoming on Bilbo. The myriad mixed well together, earthy tones suiting his homely appearance.

“Thorin,” Bilbo greeted, slightly breathless as he looked his date up and down. “You look – you look –” His mouth kept opening to continue the sentence, but nothing came out as a bright flush danced across his cheeks. Thorin shifted uncomfortably as the Englishman scrutinized him. But as Bilbo took a step closer, licking his lips, Thorin found his discomfort shifting to anticipation.

“And who is this handsome fellow?” Dís cooed, startling the two men from their staring. Thorin threw a glare over his shoulder, ready to berate his sister, only to see her kneeling in front of Frodo.

Bilbo noticed as well, quickly striding over, leaving Thorin struggling to suppress a feeling of disappointment.

Placing a hand on the boy’s dark curls, Bilbo gave them a loving ruffle. “Introduce yourself, lad,” Bilbo encouraged gently.

“Frodo Baggins,” the boy parroted shyly.

“You must be Kíli and Fíli’s best friend!” Dís exclaimed with a wide, friendly grin.

Frodo had an answering smile, chin lifting as he proclaimed proudly, “I am!”

Giving his young cousin a satisfied pat on the head, Bilbo cleared his throat, shoulders straightening as though in some kind of preparation.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he declared formally before bending at the waist. “Ai-asti duzhuk!”

Dís stared, gaping, as an outsider greeted her in the way of their people. It was an ancient taboo; Khuzdul was a gift from their Maker, so cherished it remained unchanged from its bestowment upon the people of Erebor. The gestures Thorin had already taught Bilbo were a huge breach of their laws, much less explaining actual phrases. The decree alienating outsiders had forced Erebor to rely solely on the merit of its own citizens. It had been enough for the small country, until armed conflict forced innocents to pour from its borders. The isolation policy had meant no country, even bordering ones, had felt particularly charitable towards the refugees.

When Bilbo had admitted a few days ago that he was terribly nervous about meeting Dís, Thorin was powerless against the adorable pleading for something to say in Khuzdul as a proper greeting. Admittedly the conversation took place over the phone, but Bilbo’s beseeching, doe-like eyes nevertheless haunted the man.

Thorin had always been the strictest of his siblings, endlessly dedicated to his country and the preservation of its traditions. Even now, Thorin made sure Fíli and Kíli knew the language of their forebears. Regrettably they were more resistant to adhering to its culture, as they preferred adapting to England’s, but Thorin would not give up.

Despite knowing Dís was much more lenient, Thorin was quite flabbergasted when his sister happily returned the greeting, only shooting Thorin an amused look.

“Are you excited for tonight, Mister Baggins?” Dís asked slyly.

“Bilbo, please. And yes, I am.” Bilbo looked down bashfully before straightening and clearing his throat. “Sullu iglukhul ya bark ra targ,” he declared.

Thorin groaned, dropping his head into his palms. All right, so he may have taught Bilbo a _few_ phrases. Only now did he realize how ridiculous it sounded, despite being a routine exchange. For Bilbo’s chin was beardless as a newborn babe’s – luckily Thorin had gotten used to such an unnerving sight long before meeting the man – and his soft countenance revealed his lack of arms training.

The Englishman looked absolutely mortified by Thorin’s reaction, likely interpreting it as displeased. But it was quite the opposite; hearing Bilbo speak in Thorin’s native tongue was _incredibly_ attractive. The harsh dialect was softened on his tongue, and his accent was adorably irresistible.

Dís’ amused laughter thankfully cut off Thorin’s musings about teaching Bilbo less-than-innocent phrases before the idea could truly take hold.

“I am glad to hear your axe and beard are well,” Dís replied cheekily. Bilbo’s jaw immediately dropped, wide eyes turning towards his teacher. Thorin cleared his throat awkwardly, muttering about how they should be on their way. After an uncomfortable beat, Bilbo turned back to Dís, tight smile forced on his face. Dís commended Bilbo on his pronunciation as they bid farewell, though it did little to ease the man’s embarrassment. Thorin slid into the car as Bilbo crouched down to reiterate parting reminders to his young cousin. Soon the man was in the driver’s seat, pressing on the gas without so much as a glance towards his passenger.

 

The drive was a void of tense silence, air thick with some unspoken grievance. Thorin scrutinized Bilbo out of the corner of his eye, observing the white-knuckled grasp on the steering wheel, tightly pursed lips, hard gaze refusing to veer from the road. Thorin had never seen the man like this before; he had been quite upset over the wedding announcement, but even then he had _spoken_. Ranted and raved beyond comprehension, certainly, but at least that was something Thorin could work with. Now, the reticence twisted his insides agonizingly, replacing his anticipation with anxious bafflement.

In retrospect, Thorin becoming so unnerved by such a small, harmless man was quite ridiculous. He had barely spoken to the man – unless that was the problem? But no, Bilbo had purposefully greeted Dís first.

Dís.

The instigator was so obvious; Thorin shook his head in incredulity. The English could be terribly sensitive, and Thorin’s sister was anything _but_ sensitive.

“Dís say something?” Thorin asked apprehensively.

“Did Dís – why yes, she did!” Bilbo seemed appalled by the question, huffing indignantly. “And thank goodness for that!”

Thorin frowned, trying to puzzle together Bilbo’s behavior with his contrary words.

Bilbo twisted his lips, chuckling humourlessly as he spoke. “I did not find that funny at all, Thorin.”

“What is not funny?” Thorin asked slowly, dread shallowing his breath, though he knew not why.

The Ereborean’s eyes widened as a wagging finger leapt forward to practically stab his shoulder. “Don’t play some vexing game with me!” The threatening finger was returned to the steering wheel where it rightfully belonged, yet the ire was in no way diminished from Bilbo’s next words. “I came to you as a friend, genuinely interested in learning a phrase in your tongue so I could greet your sister – who has put up with a lot of translating between us – in a proper, respectful manner. And you, you just blatantly lie to me! I spent hours practicing that phrase, making sure my pronunciation was _perfect_ so I could maybe even impress you, but I just made a complete fool out of myself!”

“I do not understand,” Thorin admitted slowly.

Bilbo snorted, hands thrown up in aggravation before quickly grabbing hold of the wheel once more. “Really, you don’t understand? You don’t see why having me say something ridiculous about a beard and, and an _axe_ of all things, is absolutely humiliating?”

“Sullu iglukhul ya bark ra targ,” Thorin repeated the phrase slowly. “It is to say –”

“Yes, I know what it bloody well means now, thank you,” Bilbo interrupted sullenly.

It seemed the significance of the phrase was lost on the Englishman, something Thorin should have foreseen. The only beards Thorin had seen here were wispy and undersized, and the people as a whole were much more inclined to sipping tea than wielding a weapon.

“Beard is very…good. In my home, all men have beard, very long. All know how to use, ah... axe. Yes?” Bilbo nodded slightly, brow furrowed mulishly as he begrudgingly listened to the explanation. “‘Axe and beard is good,’ it is to say _you_ are very good, all of you. Axe and beard is most, ah, good to my people.”

Chewing his lip, Bilbo deliberated on Thorin’s words. Thorin’s jaw worked as he waited impatiently for the man to speak, to pardon the misunderstanding. Bilbo’s comments were a bit callous, alleging the Ereborean practices were something paltry. But before his temper could flare, Thorin forced himself to remember the spoon incident. It was unrealistic to expect Bilbo to know anything about Erebor’s culture, he reminded himself.

“So axes and beards… they’re very significant to your people? They’re important.”

“Important,” Thorin enunciated slowly, having struggled to think of the word in his explanation. “Yes, very important.”

“Oh.” Bilbo’s reply was little more than a comprehending exhale. “I suppose I owe you an apology.”

Barely swallowing down a frustrated groan, Thorin quickly raised his hand in appeasement. “No. We good.”

“We _are_ good,” Bilbo corrected, small smirk revealing his light-hearted teasing. “Now, I must confess I have a true passion for languages. So,” he took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. “How was my pronunciation – ah, how well did I say the words? And please, be honest.”

Bilbo’s pronunciation was surprisingly good, but he did have a way of softening the harsher constables. Accordingly, Thorin repeated the sentence, emphasizing the roll of the _r_ ’s. Bilbo echoed, smiling shyly as his tongue struggled with the foreign movement. Once to his satisfaction, Thorin focused on the word he knew Bilbo would struggle with the most. “Iglu _kh_ ul. It is very…” he cut himself with a harsh sound in the back of his throat. Bilbo tried to mimic the noise, though he only succeeded at sounding as though he was clearing out mucous. A few more attempts ended with Bilbo chuckling self-deprecatingly.

“I’ll never get it,” he bemoaned half-heartedly.

“You speak very good,” Thorin insisted, lips curving into a teasing smile.

“Oh, really?” Bilbo snorted, unconvinced.

Thorin licked his dry lips, looking over at his date. All of Bilbo’s features were such a rarity to Thorin: short golden curls, small rounded nose, plump pink cheeks, jaw naked and smooth in its hairlessness. On anyone else, these features were far too strange, off-putting and alien. Yet on Bilbo the difference was utterly alluring, tempting Thorin to cup that smooth chin with calloused fingers, bury his nose in those silky strands.

“Thorin?” Bilbo glanced to his companion, smiling despite his confusion.

Thorin licked his lips, eyes greedily tracing those parted lips. “You are…” Beautiful. Breath-taking. Exotic and devastatingly bewitching.

How hard would it be for Thorin to say those words? He needn’t know the English terms; the heat in his eyes would convey what spoken language could not. Such affection could not be unwelcome on a date, surely. It was quite forward – though Thorin could already tell courtship in England was much different back home – but their relationship so far was not exactly typical.

“Thorin.” Bilbo’s voice was soft, a promise of affections returned. The Englishman turned from looking straight ahead, pliant mouth open to speak, when he blinked in surprise. “Oh, look. We’re here!” Sure enough, Thorin looked away from the tempting creature beside him only to see large clusters of people milling ahead, all dressed in the strange formal wear of the English. Thorin had worried the saleswoman at the thrift store had lied, given the obvious differences in Bilbo and his outfits. Bilbo had made no comment, given the debacle they had only just resolved. Searching the crowds, it seemed the men were a combination of both styles. Thorin was quite relieved, for while he found Bilbo endlessly endearing, his style was a bit ostentatious.

The Ereborean was a bit shocked – though secretly relieved – when Bilbo continued driving past the crowd. Regrettably, it was only to find a spot; the street was filled bumper to bumper with cars. Bilbo soon parked the car, though he made no move to exit. Fingers danced along the steering wheel as he let out a slow breath of air.

“I, uhm, didn’t get a chance to say earlier,” Bilbo finally broke the silence. He turned to his companion, only to bow his head bashfully, biting back a nervous smile. “You look quite dashing in a suit.”

 _Dashing, dashing…_ Thorin would have to remember the phrase, but for now he observed Bilbo’s comely blush and took the word as a compliment. “You look very good,” he replied earnestly. “Why do you…” he gestured to the man’s strange garb. “Wear this?”

“Oh,” Bilbo waved away Thorin’s confusion breezily. “It’s tradition. A part of my family’s culture, if you will.” Looking down at himself, Bilbo adjusted his waistcoat self-consciously. “It looks a bit silly now, I suppose, when most people just wear suits.”

“I like you,” Thorin blurted, in a mistaken attempt to ease Bilbo’s fretting over his outfit. The man looked up from anxiously polishing a button with his thumb, surprised eyes wide, but a gentle smile gracing his lips. Thorin found himself unwilling to correct the blunder as Bilbo leaned a little closer.

“I like you, too, Thorin,” he said, words gentle but firm with sincerity. Hazel eyes drifted from blue, trailing over the bound hair framing the Ereborean’s face. “I’ve never seen you like this,” Bilbo professed. Reaching out, small fingers wrapped around the plait, trailing down its length. Eyes following his movement, Bilbo noticed the decoration at the end. “Oh, what a beautiful clasp,” he murmured reverently. “May I see?”

Bilbo glanced up from his perusal, seeking confirmation for his curious inspecting. Thorin nodded, gulping as Bilbo brought the clasp closer to his face for examination. “It’s beautiful.” Bilbo doesn’t hold it for long; he soon releases the hair, examining the rest of Thorin’s hairstyle. His shifting exposed Thorin’s ear, and his fingers immediately sought out the piercing found there, foregoing permission.

Thorin’s eyes fluttered shut, holding his breath as he felt fingers gently prod at the jewelry adorning his ear. The touch was a gentle brush, unfortunately avoiding the slowly heating skin surrounding.

“I haven’t noticed this before,” came Bilbo’s soft voice, damnably close. Thorin imagined he could feel Bilbo’s breath, warm puffs collecting against the curve of his neck.

“Braid is important,” Thorin said finally, overwhelmed by the intimacy. The newly learned term was no doubt butchered with the roughness of his husky tone. “To my people. Most important.”

“Now that I think of it, your sister was wearing them,” Bilbo recalled. “Why haven’t you before?”

Thorin fell silent. Neither he nor his sister had worn them after fleeing Erebor; it wasn’t until they seemed settled into England for good that Dís had braided her hair once more. Thorin refused; he continued to shorn his beard in disgrace for his failings, for the people and home he could not save. To braid his hair, proudly proclaim his heritage, seemed juxtaposition to the mourning he was in. Yet here he was, hair braided once more, and it felt _good_. He felt more himself than he had in years.

“I do not wear braid,” Thorin began slowly, timbre of his voice deep with remembrance. “Because my home is gone. My people are gone.”

Bilbo reached out once more, though his time his hand sought Thorin’s. “Thorin, that is why you must wear them,” he encouraged. “Remember your home, and those you’ve lost. Wear these braids proudly, and pay homage to your people. Bring them the honour they deserve.”

Bilbo gave Thorin’s hand a heartening squeeze before his fingers began pulling away. Overcome by the speech, Thorin clung to the hand, unable to let it go. Not yet; Bilbo was his anchor, keeping the Ereborean from slipping away.

“I wear braids,” Thorin finally decided. His throat was thick with a lump that even repeated desperate swallowing could not ease. “Every day, I wear for my people.”

Bilbo squeezed Thorin’s hand once more, though this time the comforting gesture was not proceeded by an attempt of removal. They sat there in silence, far longer than they likely should have, but Bilbo’s soothing consolation had no urgency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to leavesoflorien, who wanted Bilbo to find something Thorin said (unintentionally) offensive/embarrassing all the way back on chapter four! Sorry it took so long; hope it was worth the wait ☺
> 
> Ai-asti duzhuk – at your service (female formal ‘you’)  
> Sullu iglukhul ya bark ra targ: literally, all is well with axe and beard. A way of saying you’re doing well.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week, I was like, it's only chapter nine!? This week, I'm like, IT'S ALREADY CHAPTER TEN??
> 
> *sighs*

Letting go came in slow, easing steps. First Thorin slackened his grip, internally berating himself at how bloodless white Bilbo’s skin appeared. The man made no comment, watching together as the flow slowly returned. Then Thorin gradually let his hand pull away, sliding against Bilbo’s slightly damp palm, reveling in the sensation. Their fingertips locked together, hugging each other for a moment before falling away.

Thorin had expected a shift in the atmosphere at the loss of contact. As if he would be forced to another reality, forced to repress the intimacy. But the air was still heavy with emotion, comforting and suffocating all at once.

“Shall we go?” Bilbo whispered so quietly, as though he, too, feared shattering the moment.

Unable to trust his voice, Thorin instead unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. As Bilbo approached the curb, Thorin held out his elbow. The Englishman seemed quite taken aback, given the way he froze in place, one foot poised to step on the sidewalk. Thorin doubted the appropriateness of the gesture even as he craved its acceptance, craved Bilbo’s touch once more. But then a smile spread across the man’s features, and he delicately placed a hand on the crook of the proffered arm.

 

“We should congratulate the Sackvilles’ and Bracegirdles’ first,” Bilbo advised as they drew closer to the mingling crowd. Leaning to whisper in Thorin’s ear, he murmured, “Get the worst of it out of the way,” before pulling away, chuckling privately.

Heads turned to the pair with interest, but Bilbo quickly diverted from the crowd, lifting on his tiptoes as he spied around for the parents. They were not hard to find; one of the mothers wore a ridiculously large hat on her head, the bright yellow matching her tight skirt and jacket.

“You can probably guess which ones are Lobelia’s parents,” Bilbo whispered, snickering at his own jest.

Thorin knew little of the bride, but what he did know told him easily who her parents likely were. The aforementioned woman was clearly looking to draw attention from her ostentatious outfit. Her expression matched her male companion, presumably her husband: pinched lips, glowering brows bunched together, beady eyes narrowed to slits. The other couple was much more relaxed, genuinely smiling at passersby. The pairs stood a few feet apart from each other, the only thing shared between them being disdainful looks between the mothers.

Bilbo paused a few feet away, in the couples’ peripheral but not yet seen. He removed his hand from Thorin’s arm, needlessly smoothing wrinkles out of his outfit. With a deep, bracing breath, he turned to his date, tight smile belying his anxiety.

“You will do good,” Thorin encouraged, leaving his elbow propped subtly, open for Bilbo to take once more or not. Bilbo forewent the offer, and Thorin tried not to take offense; he was clearly nervous, and perhaps being seen intimately involved with Thorin would bring unwanted attention.

Breathing in rapid succession, Bilbo’s cheeks hollowed and filled before a strange thing happened: his wide eyes dulled, lids creasing as he plastered a tight smile on his face. The look was clearly forced, from the pursing of his lips to the clenching of his jaw. His posture straightened, but his shoulders hunched up, as if to protect the man from a foreseen blow. Giving Thorin’s hand a single, desperate squeeze, Bilbo marched away, likely before he lost the nerve.

“Congratulations!” Bilbo called as he approached, throwing his arms out to hug the foursome. The men he clasped around the back, while he kissed the cheeks of the women. “What an exciting day!”

Thorin followed at a much more hesitant pace, eyeing the group warily. Bilbo looked over his shoulder as he pulled away from his relative, shaking the man’s hands distractedly. Thorin squinted as Bilbo mouthed something, though the Ereborean could not discern the muted words.

“Who’s this, then?” the closest man asked, friendly, if slightly intimated, smile on his face.

Thorin immediately dipped into a bow, low and properly respectful to his elders. “Thorin Durin,” he greeted formally to all four. “At your service.”

“Thorin!” Bilbo came to the man’s side, fingers gripping his sleeve, hidden behind their touching arms. “This is Otho’s parents, Longo Baggins and Camellia Sackville.” Thorin was undeniably relieved when both stuck out a hand in greeting – he wouldn’t be forced to kiss the woman’s cheeks. They seemed a bit puzzled when Thorin grasped their elbows instead, but brushed it off with matching smiles.

“And this is Blanco and Primrose Bracegirdle, Lobelia’s parents.” If possible, Blanco’s lips puckered even tighter, while Primrose upturned her nose, wide-brimmed hat tilting down the side of her head. After a moment of awkward shuffling on behalf of poor Bilbo, Blanco finally stuck out a hand. Obligingly, Thorin gripped the man’s elbow, an innocent action met with a sneer.

“Doesn’t know how to shake hands, does he?” Blanco scoffed, prompting Primrose to snigger into her gloved hand.

Bilbo’s mouth opened immediately, finger lifting in what Thorin knew all too well was a threatening rant about to commence. But Longo quickly intercepted, perhaps accustomed to playing peacemaker.

“Bilbo!” he cried merrily, hand clasped on the man’s shoulder to turn him away from the offending party. “Why don’t you and your, ah – Mister Durin go and find some seats? Ceremony is about the begin!”

Bilbo huffed slightly, pulling his waistcoat down as if his verbal assault-to-be had ruffled his outfit. “I think you’re quite right,” he declared primly, nodding to the Baggins’ politely. “Good day, Longo and Camellia.”

Elbow roughly grabbed, the Ereborean found himself being dragged away. Bilbo’s slight must have been quite scandalous, given the dropped jaws of the Bracegirdles’. In spite of his lack of understanding, Thorin found himself chuckling. Bilbo shot him a look, brows pulled down in annoyance, though the tugging at his lips revealed his poorly concealed amusement.

 

The wedding ceremony was _interesting_ , to put it nicely. Strange, confusing, and alien are other words Thorin would like to apply.

It was outside, which was one of the less vexing differences. The bridegroom and other men stood at the altar with the officiator. They all matched. Not only in the black and white outfits, but _physically_. In fact, almost everyone here looked similar. They were all quite short – Thorin thought Bilbo may actually have been the _tallest_ – and had curly hair. Hair colours were mostly blonde and light brown, which was an interesting contrast. Such shades were rare in Erebor, as most had dark brown, red, or black.

With such similarity, the only reason Thorin could pick out the bridegroom was because of Bilbo’s helpful pointing. Bilbo named many of his relatives, accompanied by amusing anecdotes or, more likely, exasperated complaints.

To say there were a lot of flowers involved seemed like a painful understatement to the foreigner. Florae lined the aisle and draped over the dais, enshrouding the entire wedding party. A small girl even skipped down the aisle for the sole purpose of _throwing them_ at everyone. Men had a single bloom poking out of their jacket pocket, and the bride held a whole bunch in her arm, which she later threw at the crowd.

It seemed the English pent up all their rage to release at weddings.

The entire layout of the ceremony was unfamiliar; the rows upon rows of chairs in which guests sat, the aisle down the middle, the “wedding party,” as Bilbo called it, standing in the front. Guests would not sit in Erebor; they would surround the bride and groom, forming a protective circle around the newlyweds, both families vowing their protection. Otho did not even kneel to Blanco, did not pay his respect. There was simply the nod of a chin as he took his bride, but no further acknowledgement.

Back home, the bride would have walked into the marriage circle on her own. Her father would have not have guided her in, lest her decision be forced. Standing on her own proved her strength of will, independence, and freedom to marry the partner of her choice.

The white dress Lobelia wore had a tight corset before fanning out in a ridiculously puffy skirt. Despite the great volume, it was quite underwhelming; perhaps the bulk was to make up for the unexciting colour. She did not have jewelry of any kind, not even gems sewn into her skirt! Both the husband and bride should be draped in gold and silver, displaying the wealth and prominence of their clans. Lobelia’s curls were left limp and loose, which was appalling. Intricate braids strewn with beads and gold would adorn the hair of the two, with the groom also decorating his beard. Lobelia’s only decoration was a flower crown atop her head, which left the Ereborean utterly baffled.

There was not a beard in sight (and Thorin tried to ignore how unnerving masses of small, beardless adults could be). Only the women wore their hair long, the men preferring to keep it short like Bilbo. All of them, without an exception, had masses of curls atop their head. Apparently Bilbo’s features were not so unique amongst his family, though they were unequalled in their stunning allure.

Long-winded vows were exchanged, which had most of the crowd cooing. Bilbo grumbled under his breath, and from what Thorin understood, he was praying Otho realize his mistake and run away before it was too late. Bilbo also hoped he was smart enough to have something called a…pre-nup? Unsurprisingly, it was an unfamiliar term.

At the end of it all, the groom and his new bride shared a kiss. Thorin’s eyes widened before quickly averting, shame burning his cheeks. Such affection was reserved for private chambers. Apparently he was the only one uncomfortable with this public display, as the crowd cheered widely. Ereboreans would end the ceremony with a tender press of their foreheads, as demonstrative as most would be in public.

The new couple walked down the aisle arm in arm, gleeful smiles lighting up their faces. Despite Bilbo’s misgivings, they seemed genuinely happy. Their guests cheered and threw tiny pellets at them. Yes, the English were decidedly angry at weddings, Thorin thought. Bilbo turned to his bewildered date, offering some of the pellets. Thorin stared at his open palm with a frown. Bilbo’s explanation that it was birdseed did nothing to ease Thorin’s bafflement, and he ended up rolling his eyes and turning back to the couple.

At the end of the aisle, Otho opened the back door to a long white vehicle, helping his wife in before waving everyone good-bye. The car soon drove away to excited cheers and loud claps, which slowly died down as the vehicle disappeared round a bend. Slowly, the guests began filing out of the aisles.

“Well!” Bilbo turned to Thorin with an excited smile. “To the reception it is!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I ended up updating every Tuesday. Is that a bad day for you guys? Let me know if something would be better.
> 
> I love how Thorin thinks Bilbo holding his elbow is being "intimately involved." xD
> 
> Some of the ideas mentioned about Ereborean marriage are thanks to The Dwarrow Scholar, who wrote a very interesting post about Dwarven Marriage.


	11. Chapter Eleven

“I know it was a bit forward, inviting you to a wedding,” Bilbo lamented as they skulked around the back of the ballroom, trying to find a concealed place to sit, apparently. “I want you to know there’s no pressure. I don’t have any expectations. Just…have fun, if you can.” Thorin scowled, an immediate reaction that seemingly conveyed his lack of understanding, as Bilbo clarified, “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable – ah, bad. Unhappy.”

“I am happy,” Thorin insisted, stilling frowning.

“You don’t have to meet any more of my family,” Bilbo instructed as he plopped down in a chair, the table quite a few feet away from anyone else’s.

Thorin cast a confused look around, noting the self-imposed isolation, before joining his date. “You do not want me?” he asked carefully, keeping his tone flat.

“No, no, not at all!” Bilbo waved his hands about, as if dismissing the notion. “I do, but as you’ve already seen, they can be quite overwhelming. Uhm, too much to handle.”

“I am good,” Thorin maintained. “ _We_ see family.”

 

Despite Thorin’s encouragement, Bilbo made no move to go and greet other guests. Everyone milled about metres away, chatting and exchanging embraces. Bilbo frowned at his hands, nervously twisting and untwisting the napkin in front of him, which had once resembled some kind of bird. Every so often he would look up towards the others, biting his lip worriedly before looking away once more.

“Why you not like your family?” the Ereborean blurted out finally, growing impatient with Bilbo’s hiding.

“What makes you say that?” Bilbo chuckled, the sound catching in his throat. “I like my family! Well enough, at least.” His last words were muttered begrudgingly as he looked back down at his ruined napkin.

“Family is so…big,” Thorin explained, lips moving silently as he formed his next word. “ _Important_. You hide.”

“Well yes,” Bilbo admitted, though he was quick to come to his own defense. “You see, this is my _extended_ family. There aren’t many Baggins or Tooks here tonight that I directly descend from. And there’s...” Bilbo gestured vaguely, continuing to ramble, “You know how it is, I’m sure: age-old feuds and petty fights. I’d much rather avoid all that.”

Shaking his head disappointedly, Thorin advised, “Family is gift.” The Ereborean could never imagine cowering from his relatives, purposefully avoiding them – were he blessed enough to see them, alive and well. “Fighting is bad,” he finished somberly.

The two lapsed into silence, Bilbo’s usual consoling strangely absent this night. But it was not quiet for long: as the banquet continued to fill, more people poured to the back, some eagerly making their way to Bilbo as they spotted him.

Thorin was introduced to a myriad of people, whose names he had no hope of remembering. None seemed overly offended by his foreign customs, most brushing it off with a hearty laugh as they chugged their ale. As they prattled on, Thorin would soon be forgotten – not that he minded. His mind wandered, focusing more on Bilbo’s voice than actual words being spoken. A few times the refugee would receive a covert pinch, alerting him to a question or comment directed his way. Despite Bilbo’s misgivings, the man seemed to be having a good time. Perhaps the flutes of expensive liquor he guzzled had loosened him, allowing the man to laugh freely as his face and neck flushed alluringly.

Bilbo tried to explain how he was related to the people as Thorin was introduced to them – cousins he understood, uncle he knew and aunt was easy to figure out from there. But then Bilbo started throwing around complicated terms such as “great,” “second cousin,” and, perhaps worst of all, “once removed.” Even more confusing was the way one person could hold multiple titles – someone could be his “aunt on his mother’s side,” but then also his “second cousin once removed.” Even without the aid of alcohol Thorin’s head was swimming, overloaded with incomprehensible knowledge.

“Thorin,” Bilbo was suddenly tugging on the man’s jacket, standing up with almost enough force to knock his chair back. “Can we –”

Whatever Bilbo had to say was cut off as an approaching man called his name, somehow less in greeting and more in threat. “Have you lost my nephew already?” the man asked as he sauntered over, gaze casting around for the supposedly missing person.

“Rorimac,” Bilbo acknowledged, fingers clenching Thorin’s shoulder where they rested.

“Where is Frodo?” Rorimac demanded, arms crossing with haughty anticipation.

“He is not here.” Bilbo spoke slowly through clenched teeth, clearly uncomfortable with this topic. Thorin made to stand, but the pressure of Bilbo’s hand kept him down. Out of the corner of his eye, the refugee noted a barely discernable shake of the man’s head.

“And in who’s care have you left him?”

“That’s really none of your business, Rorimac,” Bilbo stated, mouth set in a grime line.

“Oh, but it really is,” Rorimac countered. “Given your lack of experience with parenting, I truly worry for Frodo’s well-being.”

Ignoring Bilbo’s frantic look, Thorin stood, easily towering over the small, rude man. “Bilbo is good parent!” he growled, daring Rorimac to contradict.

“Oh, excellent!” Rorimac grinned wolfishly, eyeing Thorin’s frame. “I suppose you’ve exposed my young, impressionable nephew to this _alien_ , who clearly has anger problems.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, tugging the man back. “It’s quite alright; I’ll handle this.” Turning back to his relative, any façade of civility quickly fled. Bilbo stepped closer, eyes narrowed scathingly. “My personal life is none of your concern. I will not have you come to me – at a _wedding_ of all places, truly, Rorimac – and question my parenting. And he –” Bilbo barely paused for breath as he pointed to Thorin. “Is better with Frodo than you could ever _dream_ of being. Don’t you dare insult him.”

Thorin watched, completely taken aback as Bilbo defended the refugee against his own family. Clearly the two had previous conflict, but that did nothing to lessen the impact of such an act. Thorin had not exaggerated the importance of family earlier in his culture, but clearly the stranger had done nothing to honour such ties, violating Bilbo’s cultural obligation to be respectful.

All too soon, Rorimac was sneering with a counter. “Why, Bilbo, who’s insulting?” he tittered mockingly. “I’m just making sure I have updated information for the lawyers.”

Whatever those words meant, they set something off in Bilbo. The man pounced forward, thrusting a scathing finger into his relative’s chest. Bilbo practically shook with anger, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. “Now you listen here,” he yelled. “Primula and Drogo’s will was crystal clear. They named me Frodo’s godfather before he was even born, and I don’t care what kind of sick satisfaction you derive from bullying him out of my guardianship. He is _my_ ward, and he will never, _ever_ , be yours, not so long as I breathe, Rorimac Brandybuck!”

Thorin took a step closer, placing a calming hand on Bilbo’s back. The man huffed slightly from his outburst, though he made no move to back away. Rorimac’s face reddened with anger as he appeared to struggle with what to say.  But looking between the two men, whatever audacity the man had visibly paled, and he stormed away.

Thorin was silent as Bilbo composed himself, finally turning around after a long moment. But he only shook his head, murmuring a tired, “Later,” before sitting back down.

Bilbo seemed content to stare into his drink, leaving Thorin unsure of what to do with himself. They were not alone for long, however, before a couple approached, both with silver-white hair. Delicately wrinkled with age, the woman had a warm, welcoming smile. Her companion, on the other hand, stumbled slightly, hand clasping a sloshing tanker of ale. Thorin stood as they approached, Bilbo shooting him a strange glance before spotting the relatives.

“Aunt Belba!” Bilbo greeted happily, fatigue quickly banished from his expression. “Uncle Rudigar, how are you?”

“Just fine, dear,” Belba answered, regarding her nephew with a sweet smile as she cupped his cheek. “And how are you?”

“Good, good,” Bilbo replied quickly, a routine, distant answer to any and all inquiries. “May I introduce you to Thorin?”

As Thorin greeted them, he forewent his traditional greeting for once, shaking the elderly woman’s fragile hand with careful delicacy. Bilbo’s uncle, however, gave him a hearty slap on the back, with surprising force coming from such a short man.

“You mother –” Rudigar’s words to Bilbo slurred slightly as he grasped Thorin’s arm. “Your mother would be so proud!” He pointed at the Ereborean, giving him a vigorous shake. “Your father would have a coronary!” At this he chortled until practically wheezing, earning a scornful smack from his mortified wife. “But your mother would be so proud.”

Bilbo looked stuck between horror and hilarity, though his lips twitched with the latter.

“Bilbo, dear,” Belba interrupted, voice tight as she shot her husband a glare. “Would you humour an old lady and join us for a dance?”

“Of course, Aunt Belba,” Bilbo replied sweetly, pulling away from the couple for a moment to approach Thorin for some privacy. “Thorin, would you mind if I go dance with them?” Gesturing to the dance floor behind them, he chewed his lip lightly, looking genuinely eager to spend time with his family. Thorin could never imagine taking such a luxury away from anyone.

“Have good fun,” the Ereborean said.

Bilbo smiled, making back to his relatives before turning to Thorin once more. “I expect to dance with you at least once tonight,” he warned, a familiar light dancing in his eyes.

Thorin had vowed not to dance tonight, but he knew he would do anything to keep that light in Bilbo’s eyes, that carefree smile on his face. “We dance,” he promised.

 

By no means did Thorin regret Bilbo going to dance with his relatives. There seemed to be some tension between the man and his family, and the refugee would gladly aid in a rekindling relationship. Yet without Bilbo by his side, Thorin found it increasingly hard to be here. It was not the isolation – a few people had attempted to draw him into conversation (more often drunk than sober), which Thorin would brush off as politely as he could without always understanding what was being said. No, it was the families themselves; everyone embracing and kissing cheeks and merrily exchanging banter.

It had been four years since Erebor was lost, and so much more with it. Thorin had had time to deal with his bereavement, to move past. Yet this night was forcing his solitude to the forefront of Thorin’s mind, something that he normally kept locked safely away. The pang of death was such clearer when you were faced with the good fortune of others. Painful nostalgia gnawed at his stomach, weakening his limbs and threatening to burn at his eyes.

Thorin wandered around the room, curtly nodding to anyone who he had apparently already been introduced to (given the vigorous waving in his direction), though he avoided being pulled into any conversation. Soon he found the bar, a long bench with servers behind. Apparently the drinks were all free, promising a blessed reprieve from his troubles. He couldn’t convey his order, which the server seemed to find funny; one by one between other orders, she supplied Thorin with different kinds of alcohol. The first few were saccharine and sugary, which were given a grimace and a quick chugging. Something bright red slid his way, and he was not surprised by the colour given the previous few which had ranged from orange to pink to blue. He was, however, quite offended by the _green leaves_ sticking out of it, but it seemed his inhibitions were lowered already, as he decided to drink it anyways. Spices prickled at his tongue, and the drink was gulped just as quickly as the previous ones.

When he was given a glass of what could only be red wine – not his favourite, but at least something recognizable – Thorin gladly drank it down. Perhaps he should not have been surprised, though, at the overly fruity, sweet taste. But whatever was in it, his head immediately swam, feeling heavy and light all at once. Next came an amber, frothy liquid, much too watered down to be called ale. Then a yellow drink, served in a thin flute. It was similar to what Bilbo had had earlier, though Thorin did not know how the man could enjoy the overwhelming amount of bubbles.

The reminder of his date came with a sense of urgency. He must be found, his buzzing mind decided.

As he stood from his stool, the world suddenly changed dramatically. Thorin could only cling to the edge of the table with the tips of his fingers, holding on for death life as the world went in circles. Groaning, Thorin squeezed his eyes tightly shut, waiting for the universe to right itself. It never quite did; his body and mind seemed sluggish and slowed down, yet his surroundings moved with such rapidity, giving him a terrible vertigo.

“You all right, there?” someone asked. Thorin wasn’t even completely sure it was he being spoken to, and the words were difficult to decipher, but he waved his arm nevertheless. It was like lifting a ton of bricks just to make his limb cooperate; yet it felt light and weightless all the same.

“Sullu iglukhu,” he grunted mindlessly, pushing off from the table. His steps were heavy, weak English shoes incapable with the leaden weight of his legs. The Ereborean did not make it far, vertigo blurring his vision and unbalancing his steadiness. Leaning against a nearby wall, hand splayed out against the cool wood as his head swam. But his current task could not be forgotten: peering into the crowd, he spied a familiar head of beautiful, golden curls. Pushing off his support, he slowly made his way through the crowd, towering over the heads of the guests. As he approached, his target laughed, a captivating, tinkering sound that drew Thorin in, a moth to a glowing, beautiful flame.

“Shamukh, melekûnûh!” he shouted, throwing an arm around the small form. It seemed perhaps his date had had too many drinks, for they stumbled a few steps. Bilbo looked up, doe eyes wide with surprise.

“Thorin!” he exclaimed, struggling to right the both of them. “What are you – wait, what did you say?” His surprise was quickly replaced with confusion. As much as Thorin wished to answer the foreign words, he simply loved the way Bilbo looked like this. Slender light eyebrows flattened together, creating twin creases. Golden-green-brown eyes lowered in a squint, as if he could discern truth with just a look. Normally plump pink lips pulled into a stern line, tempting Thorin to pull them to freedom. Perhaps his favourite of all was the man’s round little nose, scrunched up adorably.

Thorin leaned in, not wanting the people with whom Bilbo had been conversing – who were currently staring quite rudely – to overhear his precious words. “You small. Melekûn,” he revealed in his native tongue. Melukûn were creatures of Ereborean lore, so small they appeared as a child even when full-grown. Large ears poked out of their light curls, and all the hair that rightfully belonged to their chins instead grew on their feet! Now that Thorin had said the words, he could not regret them; truly, Bilbo looked just like one.

Bilbo stared at him for a moment, brow raised disbelievingly. Sighing heavily, he then turned back to his companions.

“Would you excuse us?” he asked with a tight smile.

Without waiting for a response, Thorin found himself being dragged away by a surprisingly strong grip. Tripping over his too-tight shoes, he was led to an empty corner hidden by strange tree decorations. Honestly, didn’t these people get enough foliage at the ceremony? Thorin was just surprised no one had tried to attack him with a plant.

…Yet.

Bilbo’s grip relented before he spun around, finger shoving into Thorin’s chest. The taller man grunted at the force, hand coming up to rub at his wound soothingly.

“What is wrong with you?” Bilbo hissed.

Thorin licked his lips, having trouble focusing his attention on the words instead of the round little mouth that created them. “Nothing,” Thorin finally declared. “I with you.”

“Oh, goodness,” Bilbo groaned, hand rubbing his forehead. “You’re totally wasted.”

“What did you say?” Thorin asked, unaware he had slipped back into his native tongue.

“You’ve been drinking quite a lot, yes?” Bilbo asked, making a motion that seemed to represent gulping down a glass.

Thorin mumbled in Khuzdul, “I only wish to drink the sweet elixir of your lips, ghivashel,” eyes transfixed on Bilbo’s small, open mouth.

“Thorin, speak in English please,” Bilbo sighed, voice strained as if physically pained.

“I want your lips,” he tried in broken English.

Bilbo’s jaw dropped, gasping at the scandalous words. But he shook his head dismissively, muttering, “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

Thorin watched, tortured with uncertainty, as Bilbo walked away. But the man only made it a few steps then turned around, quickly returning to Thorin’s side with a frown.

“Are you coming or not, you big oaf?”

Bilbo’s fingers tugged on the sleeve of Thorin’s forearm gently before sliding down. He looked away, cheeks reddening as his hand gently brushed against Thorin’s callused skin, palms pressing together as Bilbo’s fingers nudged Thorin’s slightly, questioningly. Thorin immediately intertwined their fingers, shooting Bilbo a happy grin when the flushed man looked over. Bilbo made a small, embarrassed noise, averting his gaze once more as he quickened his pace.

“Where, ulkhudûh? Thorin asked, struggling to keep his words in English.

Bilbo refused to respond, seemingly focused on getting to their destination as quickly as possible. He dodged relatives with muttered excuses, some with nothing at all. Soon they left the banquet room, standing in the hallway. The change in atmosphere was immediate: a fresh breeze passed over them, instantly calming their nerves and cooling their sweat-slicked bodies. As the doors swung shut, the music and laughter became blessedly muted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Gaytriotism for suggesting Thorin become drunk and flirt with Bilbo in Khuzdul! That simple comment actually led to this whole wedding, if you can believe it! (And don’t worry, there’s MORE flirting in Khuzdul coming up next week!)
> 
> Shamukh – hail  
> Sullu (all) iglukhu (well); I couldn’t find the word for “is,” so this sentence isn’t grammatically sound, but let’s blame that on Thorin’s state, shall we?  
> Melekûnûh – my hobbit  
> Ghivashel – treasure of all treasure  
> Ulkhudûh – my light


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should’ve mentioned last chapter – Rorimac Brandybuck is, in canon, Primula’s brother and Frodo’s uncle. That’s why, in this fic, he wishes to contest Bilbo’s guardianship, even though Bilbo was chosen by both Primula and Drogo to take care of Frodo.
> 
> Get ready for 2.3k of Thorin being an utter besotted loser. And more Khuzdul flirting. *Sigh* if you only spoke English, Thorin, it would be much easier on both of you.

“Now,” Bilbo began, falling into step with Thorin instead of dragging him about like an unruly child as before. He opened his mouth to say something more, but all that came out was a pained groan. Then he was spinning around, trying to covertly dash back inside.

“Bilbo!” came a shrill voice. The man in question instantly froze, expression puckering as though he had sucked on a lemon. Thorin would have laughed, if not for his concern. The grimace was soon wiped, and Thorin watched as Bilbo’s normally bright eyes dulled, a tight grimace of his lips barely passing for a polite smile.

“Lobelia!” he exclaimed, turning back to face the approaching woman. The two kissed each other’s cheeks, the strangely intimate English custom something Thorin doubted he would ever get used to. As Bilbo pulled away, he quickly, began, “We were actually just –”

“So how are you enjoying my wedding?” Lobelia cut in, adding haughtily, “Much better than that Jessamine Boffins’!”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed dully.

His cousin-in-law eyed him up and down. “Of course, you weren’t invited to Jessamine’s.”

Bilbo’s smile widened sardonically. “If only I wasn’t invited to this one, as well.”

Lobelia’s eyes narrowed scathingly before she laughed, a trilling pitch. “Green does not suit you, cousin dearest. Don’t worry, you’ll find someone soon enough. Speaking of…” Lobelia trailed off, eyeing Thorin with interest. Humming appreciatively, she held out her hand. “Who are you?”

Bilbo’s hand squeezed Thorin’s tightly, the latter ignoring Lobelia’s proffered greeting. “That’s really none of your business,” he said tightly.

Curved brow raised with interest, Lobelia’s heavy gaze turned back to her relative. “Can he not speak for himself?” Giving an exaggerated sniff, Lobelia’s nose furled in disgust. “Are you such poor company that your date cannot even remain sober?”

Thorin may not have understood everything being spoken between the two, but he could see the impact of Lobelia’s words: Bilbo visibly flinched, looking pained.

“Ma kasakhbibmî leba,” Thorin snarled angrily.

Lobelia startled at the words, but soon dissolved into scornful laughter. “Oh, Bilbo, dear. You haven’t even trained him to speak English?”

“I speak English, abrâfu shaikmashâz,” Thorin growled, taking a step closer to the woman, who was quickly losing her humour. “Leave my date, ag zasasmaki rathkh-hun,” he threatened. As Lobelia opened her mouth to retort, Thorin snarled warningly. With a shaky huff, she ran to the banquet room as quickly as her dressed allowed, though not without giving Bilbo a jostling shoulder. Once the doors slammed shut, Thorin turned back to Bilbo in concern, only to find the man looking up at him with a sly smile.

“What exactly did you say to her?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin gave an answering grin, squeezing their joint hands. “She gone for always.”

Bilbo gave a sputtering laugh, staring at his date in disbelief. “I should take you to all my family functions!”

They made their way outside, at a much more leisurely pace having already fended off Bilbo’s worst relative. A cool breeze met them, fresh air filling their lungs. The crisp coolness was sobering for Thorin, who found his head spinning significantly less, the intoxication-induced haze slowly lifting. Beyond the parking lot was a grassy area, which Bilbo eyed longingly. As they approached, Thorin shucked off his jacket, laying it on the grass. Bilbo shot him a thankful smile as they both settled down, the smaller man immediately pulling his shoes and socks off with an appreciative groan.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Bilbo murmured, gazing up at the night sky.

“No,” Thorin said immediately, ignoring Bilbo’s surprised look. “You are be–” he cut off, unable to form the word, despite his recognition of it. “You are bunmel. This,” he pointed at the sky, “Nothing.”

“Bunmel,” Bilbo repeated shyly. “What does that mean?”

“It is what you say, but…more great.”

Bilbo may not have said anything, but his bashful smile was response enough.

Inhibitions greatly lowered, Thorin reached up, twirling a curl around his finger. Bilbo’s hair was even softer than he had imagined, strands slipping through his grasp like silk. “Your hair is ûrzudel,” he murmured reverently. “Uzfakûh, labathmi astû.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo mumbled, turning to face him. The movement shifted Thorin’s hand to cupping Bilbo’s cheek and he immediately traced his fingers over the smooth, hairless surface. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” Despite his words, a pleased smile curved his lips. Eyes fluttering shut, he gently leaned into Thorin’s touch.

“You know,” Thorin declared. “Ghivâshelûh, mê ma kurdûh,” he confessed. “My heart is you.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo sighed, besotted, even as he ducked his head bashfully. “You romantic sap.”

Thorin didn’t know what the words meant, but they were spoken with such great affection, he felt light-headed with happiness. Still holding Bilbo’s cheek, the other reached out and tugged Bilbo’s hand from his lap. Thorin took a moment to simply marvel in the sensation, work-roughened callouses stroking soft, domestic skin. Raising their joint hands, Thorin paused just shy of his lips.

“I may?” he asked huskily, awaiting Bilbo’s mute nod. Then he pressed his lips ever so gently against the back of the man’s hands, allowing them to linger seconds too long.

“Oh, my.” Bilbo’s pleased sigh was accompanied by comely warmth spreading across the man’s cheeks, a path Thorin desperately wished to follow with his lips.

Bilbo’s half-lidded eyes flitted to Thorin’s mouth, a back and forth appraisal. With a bracing twitch of his nose, the Englishman slowly leaned inwards.

Thorin was frozen; at the back of his mind, he knew he should pull away. He had already taken things too far, taken too many allowances in their yet-to-be determined relationship. Yet the distant hum of alcohol buzzed through his veins, and he was hard-pressed to find a reason not to give in to the sweet temptation.

Bilbo’s eyes fluttered shut as he came closer, head giving an expert tilt. Thorin just stared, the anticipation stealing his breath. Bilbo’s small nose gave a gentle nudge against the edge of his large one, and then –

Both jolted back suddenly, Bilbo yelping as Thorin immediately jumped to his feet. His arms rose defensively, but the loud beeping that had disturbed them came from farther away than his surprise would have him expect. There was a clatter of metal, followed by raucous laughter. Thorin could just make out a car with flashing lights; a single beep, and the lights and noise both silenced.

Thorin turned back, the threat having turned out to be a simple car alarm. But Bilbo was already tugging his shoes back on, standing to give Thorin’s jacket a good shake before handing it back to the man.

“You still owe me a dance,” he reminded the refugee with an alluring smile.

 

Thorin had forgotten all about his treacherous vow. His mouth always seemed to move without his permission around Bilbo, but this was probably the worst consequence yet.

Bilbo held Thorin’s hand – perhaps he knew the foreigner was already plotting escape routes – as he navigated the drunken masses. When they had left, only a few men had had too much to drink. Now it seemed almost every relative was intoxicated, laughing uproariously as they shoved each other around.

“Bilbo!” came a cry from a man sitting a few feet away. His legs were spread apart, and his neckerchief loosened. His face was sweaty and flushed, and he lifted a mug of ale towards the pair. “How are ya, then?”

“Just on the way to dance, actually, Rufus!” Bilbo called as he hurried past.

“Right, then!” Rufus called, lifting his mug to no one before he gulped the contents down.

Conversation was drowned out as they approached a mass of people standing together, clapping and cheering along to the upbeat music. Bilbo dropped Thorin’s hand, expertly wedging himself between bodies; the Ereborean’s bulk meant he had a lot more difficulty.

He should have taken that chance to run.

The sight before him was truly horrifying: everyone spun and leapt and bounced in some bizarre, rapid synchronicity. There were a few in the middle dancing to their own rhythm – women grabbing the fabric of their skirts to swoosh around, men dropping to their feet only to leap back up. But most were partnered up, and _by Mahal_ , did he really have to do this?

Bilbo finished removing his shoes and socks, adding them to a huge pile by the edge of the dance floor. Apparently the Englishman’s proclivity towards bared feet was shared amongst his relatives. Straightening back up, he spotted the look of abject horror on Thorin’s face.

He burst into laughter immediately, crying, “You’re not going to your death, Thorin!” The Ereborean opened his mouth to retort, but Bilbo threw up his dreaded pointer finger first. “No, this is _not_ worse than actually going to your death, Thorin Durin!” Thorin obediently shut his mouth with a snap of his jaw, though silently he protested.

If asked, Thorin would have no idea how Bilbo – tiny, short Bilbo – was able to drag his tall, hulking form to the dance floor, but it happened. And it was slightly terrifying.

“Now!” Bilbo announced once they were enclosed in the circle, with no escape in sight. “I’ll show you some moves first!”

Bilbo grabbed Thorin’s left hand in his, gently easing the Ereborean’s clenched fingers open. Bilbo’s palm brushed against his, the warm, tingling sensation of bared skin on bared skin. The Englishman’s little fingers barely made it to Thorin’s second knuckle as he lined their hands up, lifting them to shoulder height. His other hand gently rested on the refugee’s waist, Thorin’s muscles jumping at the intimacy. Looking around, he saw that other couples were doing the same, though it did little to calm the discomfort twisting in his stomach. He wanted to pull Bilbo closer, envelop the man in his arms, audience be damned, and yet his skin crawled at the same time; he wanted to push away, run from the stifling room, escape from the intimate touch.

“Thorin,” Bilbo’s words brought him from his struggle. “Your hand goes on my shoulder.”

The Ereborean gulped, raising a tremulous hand to do as told. Bilbo’s shoulder was so slender in his grip, and a part of him feared it would simply snap with a little pressure. Bilbo was by no means so frail, but Thorin kept his touch light, a bare brush of skin against fabric.

“Now follow my lead,” Bilbo continued. “I’m going to step with my left foot –” Thorin’s gaze dropped to the floor, slightly panicked, as Bilbo stepped towards him. “Move your right foot back with me.” Left and right were perplexing, and the refugee moved his left foot back. “No, your other right,” Bilbo chided with a small chuckle. Cheeks flaming, Thorin switched feet. “There you go,” he encouraged.

It made sense: as Bilbo stepped forward, Thorin moved back, allowing a space for Bilbo’s foot.

“Now I’m going to step back with the same foot, and you’re going to come forward.” Bilbo was sure of himself, watching Thorin’s downturned face. The Ereborean, however, refused to look up from their feet. Bilbo’s left foot moved back, and after a moment’s confusion, Thorin stepped forward.

“Very good!” Bilbo cheered. “Now, we’re just going to do this for a while – back and forth, okay?”

It took a few minutes to get down – and Thorin, to his horror, may have stepped on Bilbo’s feet more than once. But the Englishman laughed it off, saying his feet were hardier than that. The other dancers twirled around them with ease, some exclaiming things that had Bilbo either chuckling or flushing. Thorin couldn’t spare the energy to decipher their words – all his focus was dedicated to his feet.

Just as Thorin thought he had perhaps gotten the steps down, the music changed, beating drumming faster than before. Bilbo’s eyes sparkled in excitement.

“We’re going to have to go a little faster!” Bilbo warned, changing the movement. Thorin’s head shot up as he stared as the man with wide, panicked eyes.

The arms stayed the same, but the movement was much different: instead of stepping back and forth, Bilbo bounced from one foot to another, side to side. Thorin tried to follow, but ended up tripping over himself. Bilbo threw his head back in gay laughter, motioning for the refugee to still.

“It’s really simple, Thorin,” he guided. Jumping, Bilbo landed on his left foot. Bouncing his knee up and down, Bilbo hopped, landing on his right foot to do the same. It was a lot harder than the Englishman made it look, and Thorin jumped gracelessly, but he at least grasped the side-to-side motion. Bilbo gradually sped up, adding movement as they progressed. Soon they were twirling in circles as they made their way around the room with all the other couples.

Thorin tripped more than a few times, but instead of cursing in shame, he found himself laughing until hoarse. It was easier to laugh, when the loud thump of the music drowned it out, allowing his joy to fill the room with everyone else’s.

By the time the music changed, Thorin was out of breath, chest burning with effort. But he and Bilbo exchanged joyful grins, and the Ereborean realized he had not felt so _alive_ in far too long.

Once Thorin was able to straighten without winding himself, Bilbo stepped closer, shyly looping his arms around Thorin’s neck. The man stiffened in response, the added height tugging Bilbo’s hands to his shoulders instead. The shorter man looked down shyly, shoes scuffing against the floor.

“It’s a slow dance,” he mumbled in explanation. “You put your hands on my waist – if you want, that is.”

Thorin chuckled dryly, voice raspy as he teased, “I have choice now?”

Bilbo dropped his gaze, embarrassed, but gave a small, playful smile. “I’m letting you _think_ you have a choice, actually.” The words were surely meant in jest, but Thorin could not help but revel in the truth of the statement.

Giving the dance floor a precursory glance, he noticed everyone was swaying back and forth slowly, a blessed change from the confusing, fast-paced movements of before. All the other couples were a woman to a man, and all the same position: women with their arms around the man’s shoulders, men with their hands on their dates’ hips. Hesitantly Thorin mimicked the action, feeling the gentle give of Bilbo’s plump skin underneath the layers. Bilbo seemed pleased, smiling bashfully and taking a step closer, until their fronts brushed together.

The discomfort Thorin had originally felt had faded over time, pushed behind quick beats, fast movements, and panting breath. This moment felt right; holding Bilbo so close, swaying back and forth to a gentle melody. But it was hard to let go of the customs with which he was raised. They had not even discussed their intentions with each other, much less drafted a zarb! Back home one of them would have proposed marriage, and the other would have had the freedom to reject or accept. Upon acceptance, a marriage contract would be created, outlining their duties to each other as husbands. None of this had happened, yet they were in each other’s arms, undeniably public as Bilbo’s family swarmed around them.

“Thorin?” Bilbo murmured softly, tugging on one of Thorin’s braids until the man looked at him. “Where’d you go?”

The Ereborean frowned, muttering, “I am here.”

Bilbo’s lips twitched as he clarified, “I mean you looked distracted, like you were thinking about something – is, ah, everything okay?” Bilbo’s grip on Thorin’s shoulder tightened slightly, nose wriggling adorably as he waited anxiously.

“Is it?” Thorin countered.

“What, with – us?” Bilbo asked, pulling back slightly as he watched the refugee’s expression. Nose twitching again, Bilbo gave a firm nod. “I’m happy.”

The words were a balm to Thorin’s cultural confusion. Bilbo was happy, and Thorin knew, once he allowed himself to acknowledge it, that he was happy as well. Thorin didn’t know how he _should_ feel, but he knew how he did – content in this moment, and hopeful for many more like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma kasakhbibmî leba – you couldn’t forge a spoon  
> Abrâfu shaikmashâz – you descendant of rats  
> Ag zasasmaki rathkh-hun you will taste my knuckle soon  
> Bunmel - beauty of (all) beauty  
> Ûrzudel - sun of (all) sunss  
> Uzfakûh – my greatest joy  
> Labathmi mê – I adore you (informal)  
> Ghivâshelûh – my treasure of (all) treasure  
> Azrali mê – I want you (informal)  
> Mê ma kurdûh – you are my heart (informal)  
> Zarb – contract, in this context, a marriage contract  
> Details of Ereborean marriage are drawn from the Dwarrow Scholar’s article about Dwarven marriage.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! My dad has been visiting us (and admittedly I got sucked into writing another WIP. Bagginshield hell, man.) Thanks for your patience! And updates will be on Sunday's from now on  
> :)

 

After the wedding, Bilbo had driven Thorin home along streets riddled with yelling drunkards, shifty drug dealers, and a couple blue and red sirens. Bilbo had clenched his steering wheel a little tighter, glancing nervously around them.

The street they lived on was not so rough; Thorin would never have his family sleep somewhere he felt was dangerous. But it was proximate to such areas, and he absolutely hated forcing Bilbo to pass through those rough neighbourhoods. Thorin would have taken a series of buses, as he was accustomed to, if not for Frodo needing to be picked up. It was not as though the Durins’ had a car.

Thorin had done his best to avoid having Bilbo come up. He had given Dís plenty of warning for their arrival, and had planned to meet his sister and the boys in the lobby, safe behind the building’s locked doors. But Kíli had put up quite a fuss about Frodo leaving, and Dís required back up.

Thorin had felt as though his fate was sealed as he walked up creaking stairs, peeling walls littered with fist-sized holes and long scrapes. All too soon the front door was being unlocked, requiring two keys, as one of the first things Thorin had invested in upon relocating to England was an extra bolted lock. Dís said he was paranoid, but Thorin did not see paranoia in security.

The place was suffocating: a one-bedroom apartment with a kitchen/dining room combined. They had a too-small table with rickety, unmatched chairs. The strange layout of the bathroom left an alcove along one wall where they had hung a patchwork curtain, for some semblance of privacy to make up Thorin’s room. Thankfully that curtain was drawn, so Bilbo did not have to see the thin mat he slept on every night.

Thorin was not ungrateful for what they had, but his despairing mind couldn’t help but point out their impoverishment. Bilbo said nothing of their apartment, making no false compliments nor disparaging remarks. But the Ereborean’s stomach twisted nevertheless as he watched the Englishman, scrutinizing every single glance.

In the end, even Bilbo could not sway the children. Frodo looked up at his guardian with those wide, blue eyes, and it was plain to see the man’s resolve crumble. Thorin found himself pulled aside along with Dís as Bilbo leaned towards them conspiratorially.

“He really wants to spend the night,” Bilbo sighed, casting another glance over his shoulder at the three boys, currently hard at work building a puzzle.

“He can stay,” Dís said immediately, provoking Thorin to hiss angrily, “Dís!”

“Thorin, if you’re uncomfortable,” Bilbo amended quickly, “I’ll just take him home.”

“Fíli and Kíli will be so happy if you let him stay!” Dís insisted.

“No, truly – I don’t want to put anyone out,” Bilbo threw his hands up appeasingly, but was soon forgotten amongst the quibbling siblings.

“Why do you say no?”

“Look at this place!” Thorin growled in Khuzdul. “How could I have even allowed Frodo here in the first place? It’s a disgrace to our family!”

“There is nothing wrong with the home you have given us!” Dís exclaimed, words the man had heard before, though they had yet to penetrate Thorin’s stubborn wall of self-doubt.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said softly, having heard Dís’ words in betraying English. “Is that what this is about?”

Thorin looked from his sister, who pleaded for him to accept her words with such earnest sincerity, to Bilbo, who looked appalled – and strangely hurt. But Thorin knew; he knew this was not enough for his family. It would never be enough – they deserved so much more than he could ever provide, failure that he was.

Dis’ and Bilbo’s words, their crowding presence, hurt, pleading eyes – it was too much, and Thorin pushed away from them, stomping towards the empty kitchen for some fresh air. Pacing back and forth, Thorin tugged at his hair furiously, struggling to make sense of things.

“Where would he sleep?” he snapped, desperate for reasons to turn Frodo away without flat-out rejection.

Dís snorted. “You know the boys’ probably have a bigger bed than you, Thorin! They will fit easily. Or we can push my bed against theirs,” Dís reasoned with far too much sense.

“What would he wear?” Thorin asked, despairing his sister’s logic.

“He’ll fit Kíli’s clothes,” Dís quipped.

“Thorin,” came a gentle voice behind him, and Thorin spun around immediately – there was Bilbo, and when had he come so close? “I’m going to take Frodo home,” he murmured, soft tone meant to soothe.

“Why?” Thorin snarled.

Bilbo blinked, startled by the refugee’s rapid, mercurial shifts. “It’s been a long night for all of us; it wasn’t fair of me to spring this on you. I’m the adult,” Bilbo continued carefully, “And I should know when to put my foot down.”

“Frodo will stay,” Thorin decided suddenly; there had been a change in Bilbo’s countenance – too-soft words, shoulders hunching slightly, eyes downcast. Thorin knew he had done something to cause it; there was a thickness between them, an air of disappointment separating the two.

“I want Frodo to stay,” Thorin clarified, carefully enunciated each word.

“Did you hear that?” Fíli cried a few feet away, jumping up in excitement. “Uncle said you can stay!” Kíli immediately joined his brother’s celebration, while Frodo shot the two a triumphant grin before toddling over to the pair of adults.

“Mister Thorin?” Frodo mumbled shyly, looking up, up, up at the Ereborean with his blue, enchanting eyes. “Thank you.” He immediately turned, burying his face in Bilbo’s leg.

Bilbo’s arms instinctively wrapped around his young charge even as he continued staring at Thorin, scrutinizing. It wasn’t until Bilbo’s hard expression softened, relieved, that Thorin realized he was smiling at the raven-haired boy. Frodo was far too beguiling for his own good, and the refugee could not find it in him to regret the invitation, even if given in haste.

Bilbo knelt on the worn tile, hands on Frodo’s shoulders as he gave the boy a talk about manners, listening to his elders, and going to bed on time. Thorin gave the two some privacy, trudging back to his sister who, for once, did not goad over his yield.

Bilbo soon joined the elder siblings, tugging at his waistcoat anxiously. “I told Frodo to call before he goes to bed,” Bilbo told them. Both nodded their assent, and he added, “And I also told him that if he gets scared in the night, or for any reason wants to come home, he could call me.”

“Bilbo?” Dís inquired, seeing the Englishman’s anxiety. “Are you well?”

“It’s just, ah,” Bilbo broke off for a moment, looking to his nephew before turning back, giving the siblings a slightly watery smile. “It’s his, uhm, first night away from home.”

Dís melted immediately, cooing as she reminisced about Fíli’s first night away, back home.

“She cry all night,” Thorin interjected with a smirk, dodging the swat of his sister’s hand. Bilbo laughed wetly, wiping his eyes.

Bilbo made sure to give Frodo a very cheerful goodbye, not wishing to stress the young boy with his own emotions. Thorin insisted on walking Bilbo to his car, a demand met with absolutely no resistance, making Thorin’s determination seem rather over-the-top.

“You shouldn’t feel ashamed of your home,” Bilbo said, finally breaking the silence between them as they reached the foyer.

“It is not home,” Thorin uttered darkly. “It is just house.”

“No,” Bilbo amended immediately. “Home is where your family is, Thorin.” The Ereborean didn’t reply, and Bilbo continued, “You have a beautiful family, Thorin.” He looked up at his date, smiling encouragingly. “You have a beautiful home.”

Thorin looked away, unsure of what to say. So often Bilbo left him like that – speechless, and uncomfortable in his skin.

Speechless Thorin remained, silently opening Bilbo’s car door to let the man in. Bilbo blushed, muttering something about _chivalry_ , and slid into the seat. The Ereborean towered over the doorway, leaning closer to the man.

“You call me when you are home,” he demanded.

Bilbo simply smiled, open and free and so _easily_ , reaching up to grasp Thorin’s hand on the doorframe. “Of course,” he promised, squeezing their joint hands once before pulling away.

Twenty-three minutes later (and no, Thorin certainly had _not_ counted the minutes, he was just checking the clock for…other reasons, Dís), Thorin received a call from none other than Bilbo. The boys were already dressed and ready for bed, all tucked into bed together. Fortunately Dís was right – they all fit into the boys’ bed.

And if Bilbo’s voice sounded a little thick when Thorin received the phone back from a sleepy Frodo, well, Thorin made sure to stay on the line for a few extra minutes, until Bilbo could not hide his yawns. As they parted for the night, Thorin welcomed Bilbo back over as early as the Englishman wanted, promising a big breakfast with everyone together.

 

Thorin bolted upright in his bed, unsure of what had disturbed his sleep. Without pausing to question it, he immediately made his way towards the bedroom. Sleep was wiped instantly from his rapid-firing mind, the only hint of fatigue left in his aching joints. Stilling outside the doorway, Thorin listened for a moment, memories reminding him to expect anything. But all that came was Dís’ soft, comforting voice, accompanied by sniffling and hiccups.

The refugee opened the door and flicked on the lights, generating a round of groans as everyone covered their sensitive eyes. “What happened?” he demanded, seeing all three children sitting up, Dís kneeling beside their guest.

“Uncle Thorin?” Frodo mumbled wearily, rubbing his red, watery eyes.

The Ereborean froze, fingers gripping the wooden doorframe. Air catching in his throat, he took in a stuttering breath. He had come to care for Frodo deeply, he realized belatedly; the affection he held for the small boy had grown slowly, and plagued by other concerns, Thorin had failed to realize what impact he may have had on the boy’s life. He had never expected, never imagined –

A hand on his shoulder startled the refugee, lifting his eyes from the small, heartwarming boy to his sister, suddenly materialized at his side.

“Frodo had a nightmare,” Dís explained softly. Motioning back towards where she had been kneeling beside their guest, she said, “I’m going to warm some milk. Thorin, can you stay with them?”

Walking over, Thorin sat near the boy, noticing how the tension in Frodo’s shoulders seemed to ease ever so slightly, the way he leaned towards the Ereborean as if seeking comfort. Fíli and Kíli sat huddled together, giving the boy some space; no doubt Kíli, at the least, would have tried to physically comfort his friend. Thorin vaguely wondered if Frodo had shied away from such touch, and what it meant that Frodo sought security in _his_ presence.

“You miss your parents?” Thorin asked, clearing his throat as quietly as possible to remove the rough, grainy quality of sleep. Frodo nodded slightly, clutching his pillow. Perhaps he had a toy at home he would hold on nights such as these, given to him long ago. “You know where they are?” he asked.

Frodo sniffed, wiping his wet cheek before murmuring, “Bilbo says they’re in heaven.”

“No,” Thorin disagreed gently. “They are here.” He placed his hand over the left side of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “Always with you.”

“R-Really?” Frodo stammered, clutching his chest as though he expected them to speak suddenly.

“Adad is always with us,” Fíli murmured in agreement, pulling his brother closer to him.

“You feel?” Thorin returned his gaze to the orphaned child, ignoring the pang as Frodo shook his head. “Remember,” he advised. “Remember how much they love you.”

Frodo’s gaze dropped, eyes unseeing as he focused. “Mama…” he cut off, swallowing thickly as his lips quivered. “Mama and Papa always read me the bestest stories,” he shared.

“You feel now?” Frodo bit his lip as he wiped both his cheeks a few times. But finally he nodded, loosening his death grip on the pillow. “You do not see, but they are here. They do not leave you, Frodo.”

“I remember Adad always made ‘Amad laugh,” Fíli told with a nostalgic smile, far too young for such a longing look.

“Your father told the worst jokes,” Dís sighed, longsuffering, as she came in the room, arms laden with mugs of which Thorin was quick to relieve her. He passed them around, making sure to start with Frodo. “He thought they were _hilarious_ ,” his sister continued, plopping down onto the mat and pulling her two sons into a tight bear hug. “He loves you both so much,” she reminded them as she pulled away. As she spoke, she cupped Kíli’s cheeks, ensuring the message drove home, Kíli having never met his father.

As Frodo sipped his warm milk, he settled back into bed, the brothers soon joining him. His eyes started to slide close, the only reminder of his distress being red-rimmed eyes.

“We call Bilbo,” Thorin decided before the boy could fall asleep. But Frodo was immediately shaking his head, sliding further under the blanket.

“Frodo,” Dís admonished gently. “You should call him.”

“I don’t want to leave yet, Mister Thorin,” Frodo whispered, slipping back to the more formal title. Forlornly, his impossibly large blue eyes stared up at the refugee beseechingly. All gazes turned to Thorin, two of the three matching Frodo’s silent pleading.

Frodo seemed to have calmed down, and calling Bilbo now would only wake the poor man. Not to mention, he would stubbornly insist on coming over, despite the early hour. Thorin’s skin prickled uncomfortably at the thought of Bilbo driving through the streets in such darkness.

“You three sleep,” he ordered sternly. “I come back. You not sleep, we call Bilbo.”

“Why don’t you read them a story?” Dís suggested innocently as she began plucking up leftover mugs. Fíli and Kíli cried in excitement, and Frodo smiled a small, shy smile. The man groaned, sentenced to his fate, and went over to their collection of worn books.

“Frodo, what would you like to read?” Dís asked helpfully, standing in the doorway with a teasing smile.

“Do you have the hungry caterpillar?” he whispered shyly.

The book was already nestled at the top, a favourite amongst all three; in fact, the pages were bent and frayed from so much handling. As Thorin sat back down and thumbed through, he smiled to himself, thinking of all the blessings this book had brought him. Reading out the title slowly, three small bodies snuggled into bed together. As she returned from the kitchen, Dís stretched out in her own bed. All listened with rapt attention to the lull of Thorin’s low, gruff voice.

By the time he flipped the worn page to Wednesday, gentle snoring alerted the refugee to his sleeping audience. Leaning forward, he carefully brushed a kiss to his nephew’s foreheads. He gave Frodo a considering examination; the boy looked completely at peace, tear tracks and blotchy skin of earlier completely gone. Guilt clenched Thorin’s insides slightly, but he decided against calling Bilbo. In a few short hours, the Englishman would be here after all, likely before Frodo even awoke.

He moved towards Dís bed, leaning down to bestow upon his sister the same endearment as he had her sons. “He’s fine,” she whispered as he pulled away, sensing his turmoil with her sisterly intuition.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS SO THIS FIC NOW HAS A VIDEO. Tiamet on AO3 made an amazing fan video and you guys should really check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5243648) !!! Thank you once again Tiamet! It must have taken lots of work, and I absolutely love and appreciate it. The first time a fan has made anything for any of my works, so my mind is pretty blown right now to be honest!

As Thorin swung open the door to their apartment, allowing Bilbo to enter first, the smell of freshly cooking eggs and sweet onion wafted through the air. Bilbo grinned, rubbing his stomach appreciatively. “Shamukh!” he greeted merrily, flashing Thorin a shy smile as he got to try out the new word.

“Shamukh,” Dís greeted back. “Galk bakn.”

“Uhm,” Bilbo cringed slightly. “We haven’t gotten there, yet.”

“Good morning,” Thorin supplied helpfully, leaning in to Bilbo’s pink ear to whisper the translation.

“Ah, well – then,” Bilbo stammered slightly, reaching down to tug off his shoes before entering. “Breakfast smells lovely, Dís. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Dís shrugged off the compliment with a wave of her wooden spoon. “You could go and wake up those lazy kids of ours!”

Chuckling, Bilbo made his way towards the room. With an apartment as small as theirs, it was not hard to find one’s way. Thorin went to the kitchen area, grabbing a mat and laying it out on the floor. He hoped the Baggins’ wouldn’t mind; the table was far too small to fit everyone.

Soon three little boys trailed into the room, rubbing their eyes and yawning unbidden. Fíli and Kíli plopped down beside their box of toys, the eldest rummaging half-heartedly as they slowly awoke. Frodo soon joined, but only after bidding Dís and Thorin a rather formal good morning.

Bilbo stood by the children for a few minutes, watching his nephew strangely before approaching Thorin. The Ereborean stiffened immediately, recalling the past night.

“Um, Thorin –”

“He had bad dream!” The refugee blurted immediately, feeling the guilt that had been plaguing him for hours finally release.

Bilbo blinked, starting slightly as he clearly did not expect such an outburst. “Sorry, wha – Frodo had a bad dream? Was he alright?”

“He cry,” Thorin divulged painfully, quickly adding, “But then he is good.”

“He didn’t need to call me, then?”

“I ask him, but he say no…” Thorin shifted uncomfortably, once again doubting his decision to listen to the small boy. “I read story, and they sleep.”

“Oh, good, good,” was Bilbo’s simple reply. “I’m quite surprised, actually, to see him so…independent.”

“This is bad?” Thorin asked cautiously, following the Englishman’s wistful gaze to his nephew.

“No, no, it’s good!” Bilbo clarified with a relieved smile. “He’s been very isolated, you see. I try to get him outside, interact with other children…” The man shrugged helplessly. “You and your nephews were the first he willingly approached.”

Thorin wasn’t sure what to say to that; he opened his mouth to respond – he seemed apt at saying things without thinking around the Englishman – but all that came out was a strange, cut off noise.

“I can’t really argue my little cousin’s taste,” Bilbo said with a bold grin. As Thorin continued to stare, however, the smile faltered slightly.

“I am happy,” Thorin said finally, “He find us.”

“Move it, boys!” Dís yelled, elbowing her startled brother out of the way as she carried a large platter of eggs, bending down to place it on the mat. The children scampered over, making a circle on the floor. Thorin left a moment to grab some flatbread, the final task forgotten when Bilbo had approached.

Everyone waited until Thorin was seated, a custom no doubt contributed by the English. Bilbo eyed the eggs, sautéed with heavy doses of tomato and onion, with barely concealed hunger. Though when Thorin motioned for him to commence eating, the man fidgeted rather than digging in.

“How do we, ah, serve ourselves?” Bilbo asked, noticing a lack of serving utensils.

“Dís,” Thorin groaned. Of course the English would want their eating utensils. “You forget their fork.”

“I didn’t forget,” his sister sniped. “I was busy _cooking_.”

“Oh, please don’t bother yourself!” Bilbo interjected quickly. “Your people do not eat with – cutlery at all, then?”

“I bring you,” Thorin insisted as he made to get up, only to be tugged back down by a persistent Bilbo.

“Don’t be ridiculous now,” he chided. “I want to learn all about the ways of your people. Dís?” Traitorously, Bilbo turned to Thorin’s sister for instruction.

“We eat with our hands,” Dís divulged, glancing down at Bilbo’s continued hold on Thorin’s arm with a teasing smirk. Only now did the Englishman let go, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“So I just – like –” Bilbo cut off with a confused frown as he pantomimed taking some eggs from the serving plate, unable to figure out how to do so politely with bare hands. Thorin soon came to his rescue, grabbing a piece of flatbread and using it as a scoop to pick up a pile of eggs and plop it onto Bilbo’s plate. He got up and did the same for Frodo, and Fíli and Kíli, who tended to be rather messy eaters.

“What, none for me?” Dís mocked as Thorin made a full circle, settling back down for his own meal.

“You like me to feed you?” he countered.

Bilbo made quite the mess as he tried to mimic Dís and Thorin’s actions. The Ereboreans would break off a piece of flatbread, hold it between their fingers, and pat down a pile of egg, bringing the mix to their mouth and popping it in with a thrust of their thumb. Bilbo huffed rather adorably as another clump of food fell back to his plate, instead of into his mouth. His fingers were slippery with dripping yolk, and whenever he paused a moment to lick them, Thorin found himself…rather distracted.

Soon the food was gone, and Dís was left marveling at the appetite of the two Englishmen, who sported twin sheepish grins. Fíli and Kíli found themselves suddenly occupied now that it was time to clean-up, dragging a politely reluctant Frodo back to their collection of toys. Thorin refused Bilbo when he tried to help, only to be waved away by his sister with a mischievous wink. Thorin rolled his eyes, grumbling about meddling sisters under his breath. Turning back to Bilbo, he found the shorter man looking oddly determined, lips pursed and thumbs tugging on his belt loops.

“I wasn’t only referring to food, you know,” Bilbo said without preamble. Thorin frowned, wondering if he had unintentionally missed something. “When I said I’m interested in your culture,” he clarified. “I’d love it if you’d teach me.”

“You want to learn Khuzdul?” Thorin spoke slowly.

“Yes, but it’s more than your language; I want to know your history, your traditions…holidays, beliefs, everything about you.”

“Why?” Thorin asked, voice rough.

Bilbo took a step closer, invading Thorin’s personal space, though it was by no means unwelcome. “I care about you,” he confessed softly. “All these things, they’re so important to you – and that makes them important to me.”

Thorin looked down for a long moment; finally glancing back up, he struggled to maintain eye contact with Bilbo’s earnest hazel orbs. “I teach you,” he promised finally, motioning Bilbo towards the small table.

“What do you want?” Thorin asked as they settled down, borrowing paper and crayons from the children. The lack of proper supplies had the refugee frowning mulishly, but Bilbo grinned brightly; optimistically, he claimed the colours would make for an interesting lesson.

“Well,” Bilbo’s shoulders lifted and dropped in a small shrug. “Let’s start with the basics. Your alphabet?”

The Ereborean was slightly taken aback by Bilbo’s thoroughness, but began writing the familiar, angular writing of his native tongue. Bilbo exhaled reverently, tracing his fingers along the waxy lines.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured softly, as though the moment required hush tones.

“We –” he flails for the term, gesturing vaguely. “Write. On stone, before paper.”

“Carve!” Dís supplied from where she now sat with the children…across the room.

“Carve,” Thorin grunted, shooting his sister a suspicious glare. “So it is all – straight.”

“Right, right,” Bilbo mumbled. “Of course; how fascinating. I suppose English is very strange for you to write, then?”

The Ereborean scowled. “I do not like the –” he broke off again, making a round gesture with his hand. “Shape,” he said, as Bilbo offered, “Curves?”

They continued on, going through the entire alphabet. Khuzdul had fifty letters, where as English only had twenty-six. Bilbo wrote the English equivalent under the letters he could, but at times, there simply was no counterpart. Most of the letters were more like sounds, in which case Bilbo would write out a word in English, sometimes made up, and underline the syllable that mimicked the letter.

After that, they wrote out the phrases Bilbo already knew, adding the words in their Khuzdul letters. Thorin expanded on the expressions, until Bilbo had enough for a conversation. It was short and simple, but when Thorin and he were able to go through without the Englishman looking down at the paper, Bilbo’s mouth split into a bright, excited smile.

After that, Thorin wasn’t sure what to teach. Instead Bilbo asked him more general questions – what kind of dishes they served, what did they commonly drink (the rarity of tea was apparently quite scandalizing), what kind of clothing they wore.

“What about celebrations? Do you celebrate anything?”

Thorin dipped his head in a respectful nod. “We honour Mahal.”

“Mahal…this is your God?” Bilbo asked.

“Mahal made us, He…” Thorin attempted to pantomime carving stone, only to utterly fail. “Take rock. Make us.”

“He made you out of rock?” Bilbo leaned closer, intrigued. “That’s very interesting.”

“We love rock. We love to…make things. Like Mahal made us.”

“What kind of things do you make, Thorin?”

The Ereborean shrugged. “We all make different – things,” he said simply.

“Our family had a mine!” Dís supplied.

“We find gold,” Thorin continued. “Gem. Beautiful things. I like to build, with my hands… Forge items from metal and jewel, watch them form under my care.” Thorin reminisced of back home, spending long, hot days in the forge and creating a myriad of objects, from large, sharp axes with detailed inscriptions, to tiny, delicate jewelry, inlaid with gold and beautiful gems.

As he spoke, he failed to realize he slipped back into his native tongue. Yet Bilbo observed Thorin closely, listening to the deep passion of his voice, eyes lingering on the nostalgic curve of his lips, watching the strange gestures of his hands.

“I would craft you something by mine own hands,” Thorin promised the uncomprehending Englishman. “Something light and delicate, perhaps a gold circlet to match your golden hair. I would adorn it in with emeralds, ones with a brilliant shine, to complement the beauty of your eyes.”

Of course, Thorin failed to realize one person in the room would understand his romantic overtures. Dís cooed immediately, gushing about his sweet declaration.

“What?” Bilbo looked between the siblings in confusion. “What – what did he say?”

Thorin pointedly looked away, trying his best to hide his heating face. Bilbo cajoled him for a few minutes, but when the Ereborean would not budge, he let out a resigned sigh. “Fine, keep your secrets,” he grumbled.

 

When it was finally time for the Baggins to return to Bag End, Thorin once again insisted on walking them to the car.

“Well, you are quite the gentleman, Thorin,” Bilbo said with a smile.

His words left Thorin confused; it was spoken as a compliment, yet _gentle_ was not a term Thorin would ever describe himself with, nor would he rather like anyone else to, let alone Bilbo. It seemed akin to weakness, yet the English were queer folk and, as a whole, quite gentle. It was likely not the insult Thorin felt it was.

Bilbo buckled Frodo into the backseat before closing the door and leaning against it, apparently not ready to go just yet.

“I would like to go out on a proper date with you, Thorin Durin,” he declared formally, chin tilting upwards and chest puffing slightly. But the confident façade was soon lost, and the Englishman rambled on awkwardly, “Not that the wedding wasn’t a _proper_ date, of course. I rather much enjoyed it, but I’m not sure if you know what a date even is, and while we had a lovely time, I think we did at least, it was quite hard to actually spend time _together_ , what with my nosy relatives –”

“More date?” Thorin asked, cutting Bilbo off before the poor man winded himself.

“Well, I…hoped, yes,” he mumbled unsurely.

“Date is good?”

“I rather thought so,” Bilbo replied with a nervous, self-deprecating laugh.

“No.” Thorin frowned, trying to explain his hesitancy. “Here. In England. Date is good, is okay?”

“What, do you mean – is it proper?”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed slowly.

“Well, yes, of course!” Bilbo exclaimed, practically scandalized. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“My people, we do not do this.”

Bilbo licked his lip, nose wriggly uncertainly. “What do you do, then?”

“We ask to marry.”

“That’s it?” Bilbo’s lips quirked as he considered this. “How do you know who you want to ask, that they’re the person you want to spend your life with?”

“I…do not know,” he confessed. “I never want to ask.”

“Oh. Uhm, well,” Bilbo stammered for a moment, face falling for some inexplicable reason. “If dating makes you uncomfortable, Thorin, we won’t.”

“It is, how you say, proper?”

“Yes, almost everyone dates,” Bilbo said with a flippant wave of his hand.

Thorin stepped closer, towering over the smaller man. Had he rested his hands against the vehicle, Bilbo would be trapped in place, a welcome imprisonment. “I want to date with you, Bilbo Baggins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both leavesoflorien and sheeijan suggested Thorin teaching Bilbo Khuzdul ☺  
> Borrowing a bit from my husband’s culture (though I doubt it’s unique to Afghans). In large parties, we eat on a mat on the floor. And no one (save myself) eats with utensils. They all use large pieces of naan (flat bread) as a scoop to pick up their food.
> 
> Shamukh – hail  
> Galkh bakn - good morning (Thank you, neo-khuzdul-translator in tumblr!)


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated (and thanks) to wikdsushi, hope you're feeling better <3
> 
> I actually have a beta...I can't believe all the errors I've made in previous chapters! I once called consonants "constables." Kill me now. Anyways. Apologies for the multitude of mistakes in previous chapters; it should be better from here on out.
> 
> I feel as though my Bilbo characterization has been really off? It's been bothering me FOREVER. Like he's just not the sassy, snarky, cranky man we know. And while since adopting Frodo I think he's changed a lot (I don't think he'd be so cranky/selfish now), I'm still going to work on improving his character from here on out.

Thorin opened the door, motioning Bilbo – his _date_ , his mind couldn’t help but remind – to go ahead. Bilbo shot him a smile and a murmured thanks, stepping inside. Immediately he began pulling off his shoes; Thorin hung back, watching with wary confusion.

Bilbo sighed as he pulled off the last piece of fabric confining his surprisingly large feet, as if he action was greatly liberating. Looking over his shoulder, he cocked his head at Thorin’s hesitance.

“Shoes off, please, Thorin,” he instructed.

The Ereborean shifted uncomfortably, weighing his options. Taking off one’s shoes declared a sense of familiarity, of security; it was something to be done at home. Never had he been forced to undress – even if only his feet – in _public_ , nor did he feel particularly comfortable with such an act.

“I must take off shoes?” he asked.

Bilbo frowned, stepping closer until the two were intimately close, allowing for whispered words. “It’s a part of their culture,” he murmured, chin tipping back to the interior of the restaurant. “But if you’re not comfortable, we can go somewhere else.”

Bilbo had been quite excited to bring Thorin here; apparently it was his favourite Japanese restaurant, and Thorin just _had_ to try something called sushi. He knew he could not bear disappointing Bilbo in such a way. Thus the Ereborean found himself kneeling down, slowly pulling the laces free of his boots. In the end, the discomfort was a small price to pay for an evening, a _date_ , with Bilbo.

Tugging his feet free, he placed his boots amongst the disconcertingly large pile of other patrons’ footwear. Upon straightening, he found Bilbo staring at the ground, transfixed with his feet.

“Bilbo?” he prompted.

The man looked up, eyes wide and lips twitching. “Sorry, sorry, no,” he said, chuckling a little. Thorin frowned, wondering if he had understood incorrectly. “It’s just, your feet… They’re so small.”

“This is bad?”

“No, no!” Bilbo waved his arms as if to clear the air of any such notion. “It’s just… It’s kind of cute.” He ducked his head shyly, spinning around and marching into the restaurant.

The restaurant had a dim orange-hued light, giving a soft, intimate ambience. As the waitress approached, she bowed lowly before guiding them in. Thorin was far too absorbed in their surroundings to properly return the gesture. The woman’s sleek black hair was tied up at the back of her hair, and she wore a long robe-type dress. It belted at the waist with matching fabric, tied at her back in a large bow. The walls were unlike anything he had seen before, papery thin with lines of wood transecting through them, creating endless square shapes. Instead of pushing open with the aid of a doorknob, the doors slid back and forth. The table she led them to was low to the ground; instead of chairs, there were cushioned mats on the floor with curved backrests for them to sit on. Bilbo settled down much easier than Thorin, who struggled with the concept. The Ereborean huffed as he settled on the floor, knees knocking the low down table. Growling irritably, he attempted to rearrange himself, only for his ungainly limbs to hit it once more.

“Um, Thorin?” Bilbo’s voice was strained, likely from suppressed laughter. “You kneel. Feet under your – well, your, ah… legs.”

Thorin pushed up with a scowl, supporting his weight on the table with a large hand as he leaned across to see what Bilbo was saying. It was an odd way to sit, but he was just thankful he hadn’t kept his shoes on.

The waitress looked a little dismayed by the refugee’s blunder, quickly leaving after one last bow. It felt strange, being bowed to by a stranger; in another life, perhaps that is how everyone would have greeted him.

“Thorin?” Bilbo began cautiously. “I – I thought perhaps you might find you have some things in common with the Japanese.” Bilbo’s nose twitched as he gathered his thoughts. “You are clearly different in many ways, but the value both your cultures place on respect – you both seem to bow in greeting, correct?”

Thorin dipped his head in assent. “Bow with older people, people with great power, people we wish honour.”

Bilbo chewed his lip, pondering this information. “You bowed to me,” he murmured, a question lurking in his statement.

“I wish to honour you,” the Ereborean replied simply.

Bilbo leaned forward, though his elbows were politely kept off the table, unlike Thorin’s. “Why, though?”

“I meet no one like you. Since my home is gone, no one wants to help. They help, but I must give myself in return. I must give my gold, my – things. I give so much, I have very few left.” Thorin paused, fingering the bead at the end of one of the braids he still wore. One of the few reminders of home.

“I meet you,” he continued after a moment’s pause, “And you help my English. I wait, and wait, for you to say I owe you. But you give me number instead, ask for Frodo to spend time with Fíli and Kíli.” Looking up from his precious heirloom, he stared at Bilbo, eyes burning with the sincere intensity of his gratitude. “I owe you greatest honour, and you ask for nothing.”

Bilbo was immediately shaking his head, opening his mouth to retort. But Thorin silenced him with a quickly raised finger.

“No, Bilbo.” Reaching out, his fingers gently brushed Bilbo’s, a subtle request before he enfolded the man’s small hand in his own. It was perhaps the first time the Ereborean had initiated such contact, and he was quite sure the feeling of Bilbo’s bare skin against his would never fail to amaze him. “Mê ma ‘uglakh mi sullu gabshel,” he spoke reverently, fingers stroking Bilbo’s. “I thank Mahal for giving me you. It is greatest gift. I… Bilbo,” Thorin knew he was rambling, knew he should stop; Bilbo did not look offended or repulsed, but his wide eyes and nervous lip chewing revealed his stunned state. Thorin always felt so powerfully, with such overwhelming passion. His affection seemed overpowering, a simmering pot of water waiting to boil over. “What I say at wedding, it is true.”

“What, ah,” Bilbo licked his lips. “What words are those, exactly.”

“Mê ma kurdûh,” he recited. “My heart is you, and you have my heart. Âzyungel,” he squeezed their clasped hands, desperate for the sincerity of his words to penetrate. “I would ask you –”

“May I take your order?”

The Ereborean leapt at the sudden intrusion, knocking an elbow hard against the thick wooden table. A string of curses flew out his mouth as he cradled his throbbing joint, and the startled look on Bilbo’s face said understanding Khuzdul was not necessary to interpret the words.

“Uhm,” Bilbo began awkwardly. “Thorin, do you – do you mind if I order for us both?”

The man nodded sharply, gritting his teeth against the aching, tingling sensation shooting up his arm. As the waitress knelt before their table, Thorin eyed her with suspicion. But it seemed she was there to offer them drinks, pouring a hot liquid into small, bowl-shaped cups. One hand still holding his injury, the Ereborean leaned forward, giving the hot drink a surreptitious sniff.

“It’s green tea,” Bilbo explained.

“It is orange,” Thorin corrected mulishly, prompting Bilbo to laugh.

“Did you hit your funny bone?” the Englishman asked.

Thorin scowled, eyes narrowing in insult. “You think this funny?”

“No, no!” Bilbo exclaimed quickly. “No, you see – we call it a funny bone.”

“Why?” he grunted, giving his arm a testing stretch.

Bilbo was silent for a moment, and Thorin glanced up, worried some unknown slight had affronted the man. But instead he was frowning in consternation, finally admitting, “I don’t actually know.”

A silence lapsed between them, though it was not one of comfortable companionship. Thorin found the words he had spoken earlier, which had flowed so freely before, caught in his throat.

“Have you used chopsticks before?” Bilbo asked after a while, dull, distracted eyes brightening.

“Chops…sticks?” Thorin repeated unsurely.

“Chopsticks!” Bilbo grinned, pulling two wooden sticks out of a plastic sleeve on his side of the table. Motioning for Thorin to do the same, he held them up. “The first one is between your middle finger and the base of your thumb.” Thorin mimicked the movement awkwardly, lodging the stick into place. “No, make sure it doesn’t move, Thorin.”

The Ereborean frowned, carefully pinching his thumb closer to his finger. It was a delicate balance: keeping the stick firmly in place, and yet not applying enough pressure to break the delicate wood.

“Good,” Bilbo approved. “Now, the second chopstick goes between your index finger and thumb.” What should have been an easy gesture was made difficult, as he had to keep the first in position as well. “…Alright,” Bilbo cautiously accepted, regarding Thorin’s positioning with a slight grimace.

“Now try moving,” he offered. With a motion the refugee could never dream of replicating, Bilbo slowly worked the end of the sticks together and apart. “See?” he grinned easily. “It’s not so hard!”

Thorin looked down at his own hand. Somewhere in his focus on Bilbo, he had shifted the sticks out of position, one almost falling out of his hand. Nevertheless he tried twitching his fingers in a poor mimicry, managing only to give the wooden pieces strange tremours.

“…Let’s try that again, shall we?”

 

By the time their food had arrived, Thorin was by no means a chopstick-wielding expert. In fact, he was quite sure this took more training than weaponry back home. One could learn to shoot a bow with deadly accuracy before picking up a single piece of _anything_ with these Mahal-damned utensils.

The waitress gave them each a plate and small bowl of white rice, setting a platter of food in between them. Thorin’s head cocked to the side as he stared at the food in front of him. Frowning, he looked up at Bilbo, who sported a wide, excited grin.

“What is this?” he asked, trying to sound simply curious, and not mildly repelled.

“Sushi!” Bilbo exclaimed excitedly, thankfully elaborating, “It’s fish, rice, and seaweed. Just try some, Thorin, you’ll love it.”

Instead, Thorin grabbed one of his chopsticks and started poking one of the pieces. He could see a lump of white, overtop of which was a slab of pink, and was that… a tail? The grimace he had unconsciously been sporting quickly fell.

“It is not cooked,” he realized breathlessly. Immediately he threw up an arm, attempting to hail the nearest server with a fierce glower, snarling in his native tongue, “How _dare_ they do this to us!”

“Thorin, what are you doing?” Bilbo hissed, practically jumping out of his seat to grab the Ereborean’s upraised arm. “It’s not _supposed_ to be cooked, you dolt!”

Thorin slowly dropped his arm, bemused frown returning. “We eat…raw?” he asked dubiously.

“Yes, and I promise you, it’s really quite good. Here,” Bilbo picked up his chopsticks, plucking one of the pieces – _sushi­ ­_ – up and dropping it on Thorin’s plate. The middle was a myriad of green, orange, and white, surrounded by rice, all wrapped in a strange, blackish circle.

“You can dip it in some soy sauce, if you’d like,” Bilbo instructed, placing a bowl of black-brown fluid near him. “But be careful with the wasabi – it’s very spicy.”

“Spicy?” Thorin repeated, eyeing the light green mash.

“You know, spicy,” Bilbo repeated, sticking out his tongue and waving his hand over it as he breathed heavily. Thorin’s head ducked, and he prayed the tremble of his lips as he held back a laugh was hidden. “Oh, you – whatever!” Bilbo yelped, chuckling self-consciously. “It’s hot, very _hot_.” In spite of his words, Bilbo grabbed one of the rolls and dipped it in the hot green mash himself, before popping it into his mouth.

Now, Thorin Durin was by no means competitive. He could easily admit defeat; he could stand by and watch someone do something he could not without feeling the need to do something petty, such as show off. But this wasn’t about _him_. Bilbo assumed he couldn’t handle spicy food and, well, that was an insult to his _people_. For why else would Bilbo warn him against it, unless he assumed _all_ Ereboreans could not handle a little spice?

Thus, the refugee was really left with no choice in the matter. Wielding the challenging sticks as effectively as he could, he scooped up a pile of wasabi, plopping it on top of his sushi roll, and bringing it to his mouth.

“No, Thorin, trust me – you really don’t want to…do that,” Bilbo’s rushed, panicked words fell flat as they were utterly ignored.

Thorin slowly chewed the food, head tilted in consternation as he considered the strange textures. He was about to brag triumphantly about the utter lack of _spice_ when something…strange happened.

World blurring, his eyes filled with water as a fire started in his mouth. Singeing his tongue, it trailed down his throat to follow the path of the food. The sensitive lining of his esophagus pulsated in pain, any liquids drying out instantly.

“Bilbo,” Thorin croaked, raising a hand to fan his face, a desperate mimicry of Bilbo’s actions moments ago. “Fire!”

Had his eyes not been so teary, he would have seen Bilbo’s expression – partially concerned, but mostly smug with satisfaction and suppressed hilarity.

As the assault continued, the path of flames darted upwards, scorching his large nose. Even his cheeks felt searing hot as the blood rushed to his face. But as quickly and intensely as the attack came, it was fading. The blaze dwindled to a manageable sting, purging his sinuses. Desperately gulping down some tea, the Ereborean felt surprisingly better. In fact… he felt _cleansed_. His nostrils had never felt cleaner, breathing passage free and open. His tongue felt as though all previous flavour had been removed, leaving his palate free to taste again, as though for the first time. Even his chest was clearer, lungs cleaned out and ready to fill with fresh, crisp air.

“Lubmel,” he breathed reverently, grinning at his date. The refugee quickly grabbed another roll, piling on the wasabi once more, and chewing it before the Englishman could protest. As Thorin chewed with a silly, boyish grin plastered on his face, his date simply dropped his face in his palms with an exasperated groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are greater than all treasure: mê ma ‘uglakh mi sullu gabshel  
> Love of (all) loves – âzyungel  
> Mê ma kurdûh – you are my heart (informal)  
> Lubmel – cleanliness of (all) cleanliness


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor language and violence
> 
> NOTE: Thank you to the anon on tumblr who very politely pointed out my mistake about English police using guns. This chapter has been updated, and the guns have been removed. I apologize to any of my English readers; I hope no one felt alienated or offended by my mistake. As a native Canadian, while my mother comes from England, I don't know everything about our differences, and I'm afraid sometimes I make the mistake of assuming England is similar to Canada. Thanks for you understanding, guys.

Six days.

It had been six days since their date, and Bilbo had not said anything. Not a call, a text, _anything_.

Thorin had thought their date went rather well. Admittedly, Bilbo had been a bit embarrassed by the Ereborean’s antics, perhaps most of all by his excessive consumption of _wasabi_. But the Englishman had laughed as well, free and gay, simply shrugging off the annoyed mutterings of nearby customers.

Afterwards Bilbo had driven Thorin home, refusing to allow the refugee to simply take the bus. Thorin had even kissed Bilbo goodnight – chaste, and on the cheek. But from Bilbo’s comely blush and bashful, shy smile, it had been rather welcome. They had even exchanged the now-customary phone call once Bilbo returned home, safe and sound.

Thus the Ereborean was left torturing himself over the minutiae of every single detail, picking apart glances and words and everything unspoken to decipher what had gone wrong.

Thorin swore under his breath as his transfer bus pulling away without him. He had been just half a block away, but agonizing over the silence between him and Bilbo had been thoroughly distracting, slowing his pace.

Though the building was not too far away, this was not an area one would like to be stuck in after dark. Hastening his pace, Thorin made his way, fingering the bundle of money in his pocket.

Today had been payday, and the Ereborean currently held two weeks of hard-earned pay. Not technically allowed to be in the country, Thorin was unable to open a bank account; luckily, the people he worked for specifically sought out people in his situation. Thorin knew he was likely getting paid less than he rightfully should, but that was the price for discretion.

Around a corner ahead a person appeared, slowly approaching. Thorin stiffened immediately, eyeing them suspiciously. The man hunched forward, perhaps attempting to look non-threatening as he made his way home. But it was never safe to assume, and Thorin clenched a fist, preparing for any kind of attack.

None came as the man passed, but still Thorin turned around immediately, predicting an attack from behind. Yet the man continued on his way, without so much as a glance back.

While turned away, hands suddenly grabbed the Ereborean’s shirtsleeve. Using the element of surprise to their advantage, Thorin was dragged into the alley of which he had been forced to stop in front. Instincts kicked in before realization, elbow jerking back to slam the assailant in the nose. A pained cry sounded behind him, but before Thorin could strike once more, a body slammed into his side. His head bashed into a wall of cement, though he refused to let the dizzying ache slow him down. Pushing off, Thorin grabbed the attacker and spun around, this time forcing the other between his body and the wall. There was a satisfying crunch, but the attacker was relentless, kicking at Thorin’s knees.

The Ereborean hissed as the joint buckled, arm flying up just in time to block a punch to the face. The attacker threw out another leg, but this time the move was easier to predict, the refugee leaping back. The first man had picked himself up from the ground, but another blow to the nose had him stumbling back, crying out.

Just as Thorin was about to turn back to fight the second assailant, he threw an arm around Thorin’s neck, chilled blade stilling the Ereborean’s movement.

Thorin’s mind worked quickly, assessing the situation. The blade was too low to be lethal, pressed closer to his collarbone than his carotid. Bending his head forward, shoulders bunching as he prepared to slam the back of his head into his captor’s, another person stepped into the alley. Thorin went slack, mouth opening.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Any hesitant relief was immediately washed away at the newcomer’s words. Thorin thought it may be the man he had passed early, but it was impossible to say in the near-blackness.

But the moment of distraction served his captor well, who now had a tighter grip on the refugee. The man’s repugnant breath heated the back of Thorin’s neck as he held Thorin tightly, the position of his blade corrected to the tender curve of Thorin’s neck.

“He broke my fuckin’ nose!” the first assailant groaned from where he sat on the ground, words muffled by the hand holding his appendage in place.

As the third man approached, the cold steel bit into Thorin’s skin. His heart raced furiously against the blade, a reminder of how easy it was to sever an artery.

Thorin instinctively kicked out, landing a hard steel-toed blow to the newcomer’s leg. The man buckled, but Thorin’s triumph was short-lived as his head was jerked back, fingers wrenching a fistful of hair.

It was in this pitiful, exposed position – throat threatened with a blade, hair in a painful grasp, kicking legs soon pinned by broken-nose – that Thorin found his pockets emptied, the looters divesting the refugee of his money, money he had sweated and laboured for, with criminal ease.

“I’ll kill you,” Thorin snarled in his native tongue, struggling out of the restraint despite the knife cutting into his skin. “Binakrâg uthrab.”

The men barely had enough time to laud over their find, mocking the refugee’s foreign words, before sirens sounded.

“Shit,” one swore as they all glanced around hurriedly. In the panic, Thorin was released, hand immediately clasping his bloodied neck.

“Fuck!” another yelled as they ran down the end of the alley, only to realize it was blocked off. Sirens approached nearer and nearer, a wave of relief overcoming the victimized foreigner.

Ignoring the attackers’ huddled plotting, Thorin stumbled towards the entrance. Then one of the men ran out of the alley, yelling and waving his arms as he went.

“Officers!” he cried. “Officers! Over here, help!”

Thorin froze, baffled by the assailant’s cry for help. Turning back towards the others, he noticed them all but hanging off each other, groaning and whimpering pitifully. Blood turning to ice, the Ereborean snarled at them, realizing their tricks. Charging towards the cowards, Thorin raised a fist, roaring in furious Khuzdul.

“Freeze!”

Skidding to a stop just shy of vengeance, Thorin whipped around. Two officers stood at the entrance of the alley. As the two men behind him began limping towards the saviours, the Ereborean came to a cruel, chilling realization: the police stared at him accusingly, and not the assailants.

“Thank you, thank you,” one of the men gasped, all but dragging broken-nose towards the police. In spite of his utter innocence, Thorin found himself rooted in place, mouth opening and closing in silent shock.

“He’s crazy!” broken-nose cried. “I don’t even think he speaks English – he came out of nowhere and started attacking us!”

“No!” Thorin growled, finding his voice once more. Taking a step forwards, the refugee was met with hostility.

“I said _freeze_!” yelled an officer, jerking his arm towards Thorin intimidatingly.

As the thieves gushed to the officers about their story of lies and hatred, Thorin was unable to – not _allowed_ to – defend himself. Frisked and cuffed, the man was forced into the back of the patrol car, nary a care of the injury to his neck. The backseat was a prison of its own, with a door that locked from the outside, and a wall of wire mesh enclosing him. Thorin’s hands cuffed brutally tight behind his back, he jerked his shoulders, a painfully futile attempt to free his bound limbs. But there was nothing he could do; he was imprisoned in the cramped backseat, confined to the small, enclosing darkness.

Erebor controlled by a malicious usurper, Thorin was far too used to the police being an honest citizen’s worst enemy.

Never had he imagined such a thing occurring in England, though.

 

“You’re lucky they’re not pressing charges.”

Thorin glared at the pathetic excuse for a policeman, barely restraining a retort that he was lucky to not have a broken nose matching the criminals that the law was apparently hell-bent on protecting.

The thieves had ditched their weapons, claiming Thorin had attacked them. In hindsight, Thorin’s mad yelling and distraught struggling had only corroborated their story. The three assailants were sent to the hospital, while the true victim was taken to the police station. Thorin had forced himself to stay calm. It had been a long time since police in Erebor were trustworthy; they would sooner beat you than offer aid. While none had thus far done the former, they seemed no less corrupt. It was not long before they had realized Thorin was here illegally, and any chance of the truth being accepted was long gone.

“They attack _me_ ,” Thorin snarled. His cuffed hands slammed against the table, anger the only reaction he knew to such forced vulnerability. While the officer in front of him seemed too slovenly to put up much of a fight, the Ereborean nevertheless felt threatened, boxed in by the small room, the locked door, his controlled lack of mobility.

“Now listen here.” The officer leaned across the table, grinning with a cruel, confident gleam in his eyes. “You’re not a citizen of this country. So don’t delude yourself into thinking you have rights. Because right now, you’re _nothing_. You’re no one.”

A loud banging startled the officer. Walking towards the door, the officer turned back to Thorin with a suspicious glare, as if he had some plan of escape.

Door clicking shut, the refugee was left in silence. Looking up, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The skin of his neck was marred with red splotches, no doubt slowly growing into purple bruises. His hair was a cascade of frizzy waves, disarrayed and knotted. Braids were falling apart, a disgraceful sight.

The door slamming had Thorin turning back to the officer, who glared at the refugee menacingly.

“Get out,” he snarled.

Thorin stared in confusion, the furrow of his brows tugging painfully at tender skin. When Thorin continued to stay where he was, the cop ambled over, grabbing Thorin by his shoulders to roughly bring the Ereborean to his feet.

“I said, get out of here,” the officer grumbled as he removed Thorin’s cuffs.

Thorin tried not to wince as he was finally freed, hiding his aching wrists under crossed arms.

“All charges have been dropped,” the officer explained gruffly. “Now get the hell out of here.”

 

Thorin stumbled out in a confused daze, failing to notice the officer standing in the hallway, giving him a calculating glance. The front desk gave Thorin back the possessions he had held – the lack of his two weeks’ pay was a deep ache. But there was nothing to be done. If Thorin had learned anything from the months escaping Erebor, it was that you could not dwell on the past.

Stepping outside, a cool breeze tore its way inside Thorin’s lungs. The sky was a blanket of obsidian; Thorin did not even know how long he had been in there. Hours must have passed, and his stomach roiled at the thought of his sister. He had no idea where he was, or how to get home. Going back inside and asking the police did not seem like an option; paranoid as it may be, Thorin feared being arrested again.

Dialling his sister, Thorin tried to hide his relief when Dís picked up immediately.

“Dís,” he murmured before she could say anything, gripping his small phone desperately. “Dís, I’m all right,” he croaked, voice cracking in spite of his words.

He cringed at his sister’s gasping breaths on the other line, guilt plaguing him. Their forced exile had hardened his sister; while Thorin knew she would no long cry, it did little to assuage his pang.

How did he get to this point? Thorin wondered despairingly. It could be much worse, he knew; the men could have pressed their luck, filed charges. And then where would he be? Likely shipped off the island, without his family even knowing.

But he had let his sister down, her sons… He had let his _family_ down, both living and dead. He was a disgrace to the line of Durin, and his fingers itched to rip out the braids Dís had encouraged him to wear.

“I’m coming to get you,” Dís swore.

“Dís,” Thorin groaned, wishing nothing more than to see her, but knowing that was not possible at this time. “You have no car.”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed. “Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t know,” he groaned.

Dís sighed loudly. “Read the name of the station.”

As Thorin followed his sister’s instructions, she parroted the name back to him. “We’ll be there soon,” she promised. “Don’t move.”

“But how are you –” the phone clicked before he could even finish his sentence. Muffling an oath, Thorin shoved the device back in his pocket. Once Dís had something in mind, there was no stopping her. If she was coming here, somehow, it was best to stay put. Thorin made sure to move away from the front entrance, skulking further down the building’s exterior, where hopefully he would not be noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?? Something that isn't fluff and rainbows? Oh, my goodness :| How did that happen  
> My first fight scene, hope it made sense?
> 
> Binakrâg – honourless  
> Uthrab – stealer (thief)


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE for anyone who missed it: Thank you to the anon on tumblr who very politely pointed out my mistake about English police officers using guns in chapter sixteen. The guns have been removed, just so y’all know. Apologies to my British readers; please don’t feel alienated, and thank you for understanding the differences in our cultures (and my lack of awareness at times/forgetfulness with said differences).
> 
> I've been struggling with motivation for this story, and currently have nothing written passed this, so if you guys have been silently enjoying, please consider commenting. It honestly makes my day, and boosts my motivation.

It was close to an hour by the time Dís arrived; an hour filled with despair as the growing guilt gnawed away at Thorin’s insides. But as he saw the familiar car pull up, any shame was pushed away, replaced by a hot flare of anger.

The door was banging open before the car had even come to a full stop, his sister storming towards the station.

“Dís!” he hissed before she could get too close. His sister immediately whipped around, narrowed eyes searching him out in the darkness.

“Thorin!” she cried as she spotted him, all but flinging herself into his awaiting embrace. Luckily the darkness obscured the refugee’s injuries; the last thing he needed was his sister berating him in public for being stupid enough to get hurt. Thorin held his sister painfully close as her body shook silently. It was long minutes before he pulled away, though only far enough to press his forehead comfortingly against hers.

As another door slammed shut, the tender moment was quickly forgotten.

“How could you bring him here?” Thorin snarled in his native tongue.

“What was I supposed to do?” Dís shouted back immediately. “Leave you to rot here all night?”

“You can’t drag him into this!” Thorin yelled, arms waving. “It’s the middle of the night. It’s dangerous, you can’t just –”

“Thorin?”

The Ereborean suddenly lost his voice as he looked past his sister, seeing Bilbo’s concerned face. For days Thorin had agonized over seeing Bilbo again, but never would he have wished it to be under such circumstances.

A myriad of feelings surged through the Ereborean’s veins, weakening his knees and tightening his chest. Pushing past his sister and – well, he wasn’t sure what Bilbo was to him; not anymore. But he charged towards the car, ignoring their confused, worried gazes.

The boys were in the back seat, leaning against each other as they slept. Kíli was curled up in the middle of the pile, his brother and friend enclosing him protectively. Thorin reached in, unbuckling Fíli’s seatbelt. But before he could gingerly pick the boy up, his sister tapped his shoulder, gesturing silently that he should sit in the front. Thorin opened his mouth to argue, but Dís nodded towards the sleeping children pointedly. Knowing his sister was not one to be moved, the Ereborean regretfully slipped into the front.

The car filled with tense silence as they made their way back to the apartment. At times Thorin could swear he felt Bilbo’s gaze on him, but the Ereborean turned away, unable to face the judgment.

When they pulled up to a familiar curb, Thorin opened his door immediately, tensed to jump out and walk away without another word, wishing to forget this night ever happened.

“Thorin,” Bilbo’s voice came, quiet but hard as steel. “We need to talk.”

The refugee could have easily ignored the words, ran to the safety of his locked building. But even now, he found it difficult to defy anything Bilbo wanted. The refugee had already disappointed him beyond repair – a few more minutes would not make such a difference.

Dís gently wakened Fíli, who was too tired to do anything other than trail his mother dazedly as she carried his younger brother towards the building. She shot Thorin one last look as she entered, as though fearful he would disappear again.

When the silence continued to stretch between them, Bilbo sighed. “Thorin, what happened? And don’t you _dare_ lie to me,” he said, words accompanied by his Mahal-damned shaking finger.

“I walk home,” Thorin started, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. “Three men come. They take my money.”

“You were _mugged_?” Bilbo gasped, turning back to a slumbering Frodo. Lowering his voice, he continued, “They stole your money – took it from you?”

“Yes,” Thorin grunted, fingers clenching into a tight fist.

“Are you all right?” Bilbo asked, leaning forward to examine Thorin’s face even as the Ereborean turned away.

“They take me to jail,” Thorin muttered angrily.

“What?” Bilbo exhaled sharply. “Why? You should be pressing charges!”

“I break them,” Thorin said with a wry twist of his lips. “Nose, finger.” His face quickly fell, expression somber. “Police come. They say I attack them. My English, no good. I-I couldn’t,” he broke off, cursing the stutter in his voice. “I couldn’t say truth. They take me.”

“Thorin, that’s absolutely horrible!” Bilbo breathed. “We have to talk to them. I’ll come with you, I’ll explain everything.

“Bilbo, I am not – I am not okay here. In England.” He finally turned to his companion, hating how the determination in Bilbo’s eyes was slowly replaced with confusion. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Realization dawned on Bilbo’s face, the Englishman’s jaw dropping slightly.

“They almost send me away,” Thorin confessed. “I don’t – they let me go. I don’t know why.”

Before he could ponder the confusing turn of events, Bilbo reached out, hand gently covering his. The sudden contact was distracting, a sensation Thorin had sorely missed.

“Is your rent due soon?” Bilbo asked quietly.

Swallowing thickly, the refugee nodded.

Squeezing their joint hands, Bilbo leaned forward. “Thorin, if you need anything…” He trailed off, eyeing Thorin’s hardened expression. “I’m always here for you, okay?”

 _Then why haven’t you been here_ , Thorin wanted to ask, lips desperate to form the words. Instead he gave a jerk of a nod, acknowledging the statement with no plan of ever taking advantage of Bilbo’s too-kind offer.

“We have money,” Thorin said. “Is little, but is good.”

Neither spoke, but the silence between them felt lighter than before. Bilbo’s thumb stroked against the back of Thorin’s hand, an endless, calming pattern.

“I want you and your family to come over.”

Thorin could not stop the derisive snort. “Really? You see us again now?”

“What do you mean?” Bilbo asked, caress suddenly stopping.

“You not say anything for – for _days_ ,” Thorin growled. “No text, no phone. Now you want to see?”

Bilbo’s lips pursed angrily. “What are you trying to say exactly, Thorin?” he asked slowly.

The Ereborean shrugged, trying for nonchalance he certainly did not feel. “I do not know why you say this now. Maybe you have to see me, Dís tell you. You ask me. You feel – bad.” The words left a bitter taste on his tongue, and he wished desperately to replace them. But he could not allow Bilbo to carry on with some pathetic charade.

“Pardon me, Thorin Durin,” Bilbo snapped, voice menacing despite its low tone. “I’ll have you know I’ve been quite busy, thank you very much. And if you had a problem with that, all you had to do was pick up your phone! You have fingers, don’t you? Eyes, the ability to _speak_?”

“You have too!” Thorin exclaimed as quietly as his anger could allow.

“I was _busy_!” Bilbo reiterated between clenched teeth.

His energy seemed to drain suddenly with the end of his rant. Sighing heavily, the Englishman dropped his forehead into his palm.

“I think you should just go, Thorin,” he muttered without looking up.

Thorin was out of the car without another word, gripping the handle with a white-knuckled fist.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you anymore!” Bilbo exclaimed, leaning over the passenger seat. Thorin just barely caught the door before it closed on the man’s face, grunting as it instead caught his fingers. Bilbo did not seem to notice – as bitter as Thorin was, he knew the Englishman would not ignore something like that.

“So don’t you dare get get all pouty again,” Bilbo warned. “Now, are you free Friday?”

Thorin stood for a few minutes, likely looking as though he had to seriously considering Bilbo’s offer. Though in truth, he wanted to make sure the pain was gone from his voice when he spoke. “I am at work,” he informed the driver gruffly.

“What time do you get off?” Bilbo asked, taking out his phone.

Good to see the man still knew how to use it, Thorin thought indignantly, ignoring how misplaced his anger truly was.

“They say five, but it is late some days.”

“Would you be able to come by after with your sister and the boys?” Bilbo asked, looking up from the small screen. Expression softening, a hint of a hopeful smile tugged at his lips.

“I be there,” Thorin found himself promising. “ _We_ be there,” he corrected.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you to everyone who commented last chapter <3 your comments are all so inspiring and truly help me staying motivated with my writing! I hope you enjoy~
> 
> Secondly, I've realized there are some facts I know about this story, which may have not come across in my writing. So here are some things I'd like to make clear.  
> -Thorin, Dís, and Fíli are here illegally. How they got here will be explained.  
> -Thorin works a crappy construction job, instead of something that actually uses his talent, because they pay under the table.  
> -They live in a tiny apartment in a rough neighbourhood, not only because it's what they can afford, but also because the landlord doesn't care about ID/background checks/etc.  
> -I definitely did not mention this, but their phone plans are just pre-paid disposables. No ID required, as there is no contract. Just pay cash.  
> As this story is limited to Thorin's POV, it's sometimes hard to establish facts. As the story goes on and more things are revealed, if there's anything not clicking with you (because I was being too vague, or I wasn't explaining things), please let me know! I will gladly explain it, so long as it's not a spoiler :)

Thorin had to admit, if only to himself, it felt good to be standing on the front porch of Bag End once more. Despite the once-common routine, it felt different this time – likely a combination of the setting sun and Dís’ presence. But there was something undeniably _right_ about being here, seeing Bilbo. Internally Thorin berated his own stubbornness; had he only contacted Bilbo himself, it likely wouldn’t have been so long since he last stood here.

As the boys knocked again, Thorin look down at himself, glowering at the brightness of his orange vest. Plucking at the shirt underneath, he was unable to contain a grimace. While the black thankfully concealed the rings of sweat, the colour would have absolutely no impact on the _smell_.

As predicted, Thorin had been asked to stay late at work. Given all the money he had lost recently, he was in no position to deny the opportunity. Bilbo had been completely understanding, but it did nothing to assuage Thorin’s guilt. Knowing the Englishman, a lot of work had likely been put into whatever this night was; even a simple dinner would be an extravagant affair.

The refugee had called his sister, who suggested she meet Thorin at his worksite with the boys. Thorin had not been pleased with the proposal – memories of his mugging had had his heart palpating, not from reminiscence, but from the thought of the same thing happening to them. But Dís, as always, had been insistent. Even by the time they arrived at the site, the sun would still be high in the sky, she said, and they certainly wouldn’t walk down any alleys to make _a stupid short cut, unlike some people_. In the end, Thorin caved, if only because he didn’t have time to argue, and he knew Dís would show up with or without his approval.

In fact, his supervisor, who had stood with an unfamiliar man in a suit, had called him back. They had needed to reaffirm his address for their records, apparently – routine procedure. Thorin had never been subjected to such procedure since he began working with this company, but he had not moved since then either; they already had the information, so there had been no reason not to confirm it.

In the present, Dís rolled her eyes, giving Thorin’s stomach a firm whack. “It’s not my fault,” she insisted, referring to their earlier argument.

“How could you not think to bring me a change of clothes?” Thorin hissed, running his fingers through his hair – still damp; it would have to stay tied back.

“How could _you_ not think to ask me?” she countered, jabbing his ribs with an elbow when he opened his mouth to retort.

Thorin found himself impulsively side-stepping as the door swung open, hoping to delay Bilbo’s reaction for as long as possible. He listened as everyone exchanged merry greetings, Dís trying to go in for an English-style cheek kissing as Bilbo reached out to grasp her elbow. Both laughed, settling for the latter. With the three inside tugging off their shoes, Bilbo stepped further onto the porch, clearly searching for Thorin.

“Oh,” Bilbo gasped, jumping a little as he spun around, coming face-to-face with his missing guest. Immediately his eyes took in Thorin’s grimy face, sweat-slicked hair, and dusty clothes. “Thorin, you, um – you look, um…” Bilbo swallowed thickly, little mouth falling open once more. “You, ah… Y-You guys!” Bilbo turned back to the entryway, plastering on a grin for the others. “Boys, why don’t you take your mother to the sitting room? Frodo should be down in a moment. I – your, ah, uncle and I –”

Thorin could practically hear Dís’ grin as she took mercy on the stammering Englishman. “Let’s go find your friend,” she directed her sons, though they likely needed no encouragement at all.

“Work,” Thorin grunted, prompting Bilbo to whirl around, looking slightly startled. “I have no clothes – _Dís_ bring no clothes,” he was quick to blame. “Only work clothes,” finishing lamely, he gestured to his outfit.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bilbo mumbled dazedly. Scrubbing a hand over his flushed face, the Englishman seemed to regain his countenance. “It’s good to see you,” he said softly, looking up at Thorin with that damnably hopeful smile. He must have noticed Thorin’s pained expression, for he was quick to throw up that all-too familiar finger. “Now don’t you go apologizing, Thorin Durin! Everything is just fine between us.” As if seeking reassurance himself, Bilbo’s hand reached out, brushing gently against Thorin’s. The Ereborean was quick to grab it, intertwining their fingers with surprising ease.

Perhaps it was their time apart, but the action was not accompanied by the uncomfortable uncertainty of before. Bilbo’s hand just fit so perfectly in his – the Englishman’s fingers were so smooth and small, but the dichotomy made for such a marvelous sensation.

The refugee leaned down, trying to tug at his heavy work boots one-handed. He felt as though letting go of Bilbo’s hand would be a permanent loss. Laughing, the Englishman pulled away far too soon – though his half-smile and twinkling eyes were a reassuring promise.

Thorin’s nose wrinkled as he pulled the last boot off, making sure to put his pair far away from the others. Next came off the bright orange reflective vest. Bilbo held out his hand expectantly, but the refugee shook his head, pulling the vest close to his chest, as though protective.

“Where?” he grunted, following his host to a nearby closet and proceeding to hang up the small garment.

“Well,” Bilbo said, rocking on his heels. “Shall we find the others?”

Once they made their way to the sitting room, Frodo ran over, all but jumping up and down in excitement.

“Uncle Bilbo!” he chirped. “Can we show them yet?”

Thorin and Dís exchanged bemused looks as Bilbo smiled secretively.

“Lead the way, my lad,” the eldest Baggins entreated.

Frodo grabbed Fíli and Kíli by the hands, practically running down the hallway. Bilbo huffed and rolled his eyes, motioning for Dís and Thorin to go ahead. Already Thorin’s fingers itched to wrap themselves around Bilbo’s, but the Englishman was fidgeting nervously, his agitation only serving to pique the Ereborean’s curiousity.

The moment Thorin stepped into the parlour, he froze, glancing around in silent amazement. The first thing that drew his eye was a huge banner hanging from the ceiling. It was hard to ignore, the bright colours immediately drawing the eye. Thorin’s brows drew together as he slowly formed the words.

“Happy…Creation Day,” he mumbled, understanding only furthering his bemusement.

The room had changed from the last time Thorin was here – the furniture was the same, but there were decorations everywhere. The tables were covered in gold cloth, and bouquets of flowers were spread around the room. Thorin cared naught for floral arrangements – in fact, he thought he had seen quite enough of them at the wedding. But it was clear Bilbo had gone to painstaking measures to gather the flowers, decorating them around the room. Though Thorin could not name a single one, there were a multitude of colours – white, blue, pink, red. All arranged tastefully, somehow coming together despite their different shapes and forms.

There were also streams of bright colours, twirling fabrics falling from the ceiling. Balloons littered the walls, and were attached to the backs of furniture. Fíli and Kíli grabbed some balloons without hesitation, throwing them at each other and a giggling Frodo.

The elder Ereboreans turned to their host, incredulous. Bilbo cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels under the intensity of their gazes.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he explained. “I hope it’s all right – I know it must not be anything like back home, but I did as much research as I could. That’s why I’ve been so dratted busy, you see, Thorin. And it’s quite impossible finding information about Erebor, I’ll have you know!” And here he shook a finger beratingly, as though holding the Durins personally responsible. “But I found there was a celebration coming up in honour of the first person ever created by – erm, Mahal?”

“Mahal,” Dís agreed. “He carved Durin from the stone, breathing life into him. Our family line comes from Durin directly.”

“Oh, goodness!” Bilbo breathed, giving the siblings a wide smile. “That must mean you’re very special,” he added jokingly. Both Dís and Thorin nodded gravely, though Thorin shot his sister a silencing look before she could elaborate.

“Well,” Bilbo continued, waltzing around his room critically. “I read that mining and smithing are very important to your people, so I tried to go for that kind of theme.” Chuckling dryly, he motioned to the bright and colourful additions. “Of course, Frodo said it wouldn’t be a party without balloons and streamers. He also decorated the banner…as you can probably tell,” the last part whispered behind his hand teasingly.

“Thank you greatly, Bilbo,” Dís said sincerely, walking over to the Englishman and grasping his forearm.

It took Thorin a moment to find his words, throat suddenly tight as he continued to glance around the room. “Akhminruki mê,” Thorin echoed, giving the continuously surprising man a formal bow, though the action seemed so insignificant compared to all Bilbo deserved.

After Dís whispered in his ear, Bilbo responded, “Ya harmu,” shooting Thorin a bright smile. “But why don’t you make yourselves comfortable?” Motioning for them to sit down, he made to exit. “I’ll just check on dinner.”

“Bilbo!” Thorin choked slightly, panicked and unsure why. Thorin had to do _something_ – Bilbo could not begin to know what he had done tonight, the utterly mind-blowing, amazing, heartfelt celebration he had put together for their sakes.

Bilbo only smiled as Thorin stared at him, unable to convey his feelings into words, sweet and gentle. Grabbing one of Thorin’s hands, he gave a reassuring squeeze. Leaning up, he brushed a quick kiss against the Ereborean’s cheek before pulling back and walking away.

The moment Bilbo left the room, Thorin groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

“What is it?” Dís asked, slipping into their native tongue.

Thorin shook his head, sighing heavily. “Bilbo stopped talking to me last week,” he confessed, scowling as he was forced to continue painfully. “I thought he had stopped…” Thorin cut off, neck flushing. Dís did not need to know he had been despairing, thinking Bilbo no longer returned his affections. “But now I see he was so busy, putting all this together for us…”

Thorin dropped the hands hiding his pained expression as his sister bumped her shoulder into his, not quite gently. “Is that why you were so cranky?” she teased, laughing off Thorin’s glare. “You’re the biggest idiot ever, nadad,” she chided, though her smile was gentle.

Thorin wondered if Bilbo knew the significance of the day he had chosen, of how strongly Ereboreans valued their Creators’ struggle to bring them life. Back home it would be a grand celebration indeed, rivaling even Durin’s Day.

Before Thorin could lose himself in bittersweet memories, Bilbo returned, apron covering his smart dress clothes. His hair was pulled back into a tiny stump at the nape of his neck. But the curls refused to be tamed, spilling out to frame his round face.

“Dinner’s ready, if you would all care to follow me.”

The children raced out of the room, giggling about who would get there first. Dís stormed into the hallway, ready to scold them, when Bilbo raised a placating hand.

“It’s quite alright, Dís,” he said, half-laughing. Recalling such competition on their first visit, Bilbo and Thorin exchanged an exasperatingly amused glance.

 

The dining room was decorated as well, the table covered in a long, gold cloth embroidered with twisting vines and blooming flowers. Three candles were placed upon the long table, white wax placed in clear bowls. As Thorin leaned forward to inspect, he noticed the bowls were filled with small gold acorns. Picking one up, Thorin was surprised to find the texture not smooth as plastic, but a little rough.

“Oh, those were fun to make!” Bilbo said as he waved everyone into their seats, Thorin being placed at the head with Dís to his immediate right. “You just bake them in the oven, and spray paint them gold!”

“You make?” Thorin asked, shocked and confused as to why Bilbo would go to such trouble.

But Bilbo simply shrugged, already walking back to the kitchen.

Thorin watched him silently, mouth opening and closing until Dís elbowed him in the side.

“Follow him, you idiot!” she hissed.

Thorin stumbled forwards, following the host’s path. He found Bilbo in the kitchen, muttering to himself as he flitted about, preparing sauces and dishes. Thorin stepped forward as Bilbo attempted to lift a large dish of savoury-smelling meat in a thick, red sauce. Bilbo started at the man’s sudden presence, gasping and placing a red mitt covered hand to his heaving chest.

“Thorin!” he scolded, slapping the refugee’s arm lightly. “Make some noise, why don’t you!”

Thorin’s lips twitching, he advised, “Listen to around you.” Lifting the large platter with great ease, he noticed Bilbo’s eyes trail along his muscled arms. Thorin’s face heated, wishing he had sleeves to pull down. Yet his stomach fluttered excitedly, heat pooling in his lower abdomen. Bilbo’s impassioned gaze was somehow tantalizing, enticing Thorin for more. But the Ereborean pulled away, ignoring his flushed neck.

Bilbo blinked, his own cheeks mirroring how Thorin’s felt. “Oh, ah, umm,” he stammered. “If you wouldn’t mind too terribly, to take that to the dining room – I see you won’t have any problem carrying it. Not that I was staring!” the Englishman gasped suddenly, rambling even more. “It’s just hard to – they’re so big… Oh, Eru above!” Fluttering his hands, he motioned for the bemused Ereborean to simply leave. “Just – go, please.”

Pursing his lips to hide a chuckle, Thorin sauntered back towards the dining room, feeling oddly giddy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight cliffhanger; I couldn't find a better place to cut the chapter!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Once he set the platter on the table, Thorin immediately went back to the kitchen. Soon he and Bilbo had the table all ready, though Thorin’s help was only accepted begrudgingly. Bilbo made one last round about the table, filling everyone’s goblets with chilled water. The goblets were painted gold, decorated with fine engravings and little red gems, a juxtaposition against the silver dinnerware. Picking up a large serving spoon, Thorin examined it closely, running a finger along the detailed trim. Eyes lifting, he noticed Bilbo watching him closely, lips puckered and nose twitching furiously.

Ah, yes. Thorin remembered their disagreement so long ago about the silver cutlery. Continuing to eye the piece in careful scrutiny, he bit down a smile as Bilbo huffed none-too softly.

“Well?” the Englishman snapped, arms crossing.

Neatly putting the spoon back down, Thorin drawled, “It is real,” chin tilted high.

Just as Bilbo began to fuss and mutter about how _of course it’s real_ , Dís rolled her eyes, picking up the same serving utensil.

“See this?” she said, pointing to the insignia carved into the back. “This is a hallmark. 925 means it is 92.5 percent pure silver, alloyed with another metal.”

Bilbo reached across, gingerly taking the utensil from Dís hand to examine the piece himself. “So that’s how you know?” he asked, more accusing than questioning as he turned to Thorin with a glare. “I thought it was some sort of secret skill!”

Thorin’s head slowly rolled towards his sister, eyes narrowed. “It takes skill to see,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Oh, yes!” Bilbo cried. “The skill of having _eyes_!”

Dís laughed, slapping her brother’s forearm, completely unfazed by his glower. “Did he tell you it’s a secret?” she asked.

“No,” Bilbo admitted, though no less begrudgingly. “But he acted as though it were! Wouldn’t explain to me how he knew my cutlery wasn’t pure silver – and mark my words, Thorin Durin! It used to be, before that shifty-eyed Lobelia Sackville-Baggins took it! Always she demanded I bring out my antique silverware when she came to dinner – I save it for only the most important guests, you see – and I should have known something was wrong when she stopped doing so!”

The Durins exchanged slightly unnerved glances as Bilbo’s face reddened with his impassioned rant. But the Englishman soon deflated, giving the adults a sheepish smile.

“Well, enough of that. I hope you guys are hungry!”

Bilbo grinned at the answering round of nodding heads, a few murmured _yes_ es thrown in for good measure.

Thorin stared at the buffet laid at before him, mouth watering. “I eat my beard!” he exclaimed, grinning jovially as his stomach rumbled in agreement.

Fíli and Kíli had no reaction, unlike Frodo, who turned to Thorin with wide, terrified eyes. His elder cousin did much the same, practically dropping the serving spoon he had reached forward to pick up. Dís, on the other hand, burst into laughter.

“Pardon, but you’re – what? Going to eat your _beard_?” Bilbo yelped, eyeing Thorin’s facial hair in abject horror. Gasping suddenly, he slapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude!” Nose crinkling, he tried to smooth the obvious disgust on his face. “Ah,” he began hesitantly. “Is that a, uhm, custom amongst your people?”

Dís hands slammed on the table, the sudden loudness startling everyone. Her body was wracked with laughter; struck with such force, she was silent save for gasping little noises.

Bilbo stared, utterly perplexed, and looking more than a little mortified for what he seemed to believe was a social blunder.

With a heavy sigh, Thorin rubbed a hand down his face wearily. Bringing his forefinger and thumb up, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did he say that, he berated himself silently. Of course a beardless Englishman would have no understanding of the phrase.

“Thorin?” Bilbo inquired hesitantly, though the Ereborean could not yet bring himself to look.

Dís would ensure this haunted him for years to come, he just knew it.

“My people say,” Thorin muttered gruffly, teeth grinding as his attempt at explanation seemed to renew Dís amusement; she cackled in another round of laughter.

“It’s like – it’s like saying,” Dís was forced to repeat herself as she dissolved into giggles. “You’re very hungry!”

“Oh!” Bilbo blinked, a combination of abhorrence and puzzlement replaced with excited understanding. “Like, _I’m hungry enough to eat a horse_!”

Now it was the Durins’ turns to be repulsed. Fíli and Kíli turned up their noses, the adults struggling to keep similar expressions off their own faces.

“Why would you eat a horse?” Fíli cried.

His brother joined in, declaring, “That’s gross!” His words were followed by a small frown as he turned to his brother. “How would you eat a horse, Fee?” he asked, strangely intrigued.

“Dunno, Kee,” his brother shrugged. “Like a cow.”

Suddenly Kíli gasped, jumping up from his chair. “Are you feeding us horse, Mister Boggins?” he cried.

Immediately he was joined by Fíli, who looked equally horrified. Their mother and uncle turned to the food, the latter eyeing it with great suspicion. It would not be the first time Bilbo tried feeding Thorin strange cuisine – although he admittedly enjoyed the _sushi_ , if only because of the ilbêm of _wasabi_ , but it did not mean Bilbo would win again.

“Uncle Bilbo and I don’t eat horse,” Frodo interjected, lip jutted out in a pout.

“It’s just a saying!” Bilbo shouted, throwing up his arms as he looked at his guests in shock. “You don’t actually eat your beard, do you?”

Thorin, not wholly convinced, glanced at his host with narrowed eyes. “No horse?” he asked suspiciously.

“Whether it’s horse or not, you’re eating this food!” Bilbo vowed, pointing at the feast emphatically. “I have worked all day on this!”

The youngest Durin’s shuffled back to their seats, heads bent in defeat.

“So…” Fíli broke the tense silence, repeating, “Is it horse?”

Bilbo let out a huff of air, as if the breath had been physically forced from his lungs. For a long moment he simply stared at the boy, lips quirking as he sucked on his teeth.

“No, Fíli,” he finally spoke, voice tight. “I am not feeding my guests horsemeat.”

 

In spite of the rocky start, dinner was amazing. Bilbo had gone to great lengths to recreate the type of meals the Durins would have back home. The savoury roasted vegetables were all familiar – yams, carrots, potatoes, onions, and turnip. There was not a speck of green in sight, which was quite a feat for the peculiar Englishman. The varieties of red meat dishes were all mouth-watering. There was beef, braised with onions and carrots; lamb meatballs in a tangy red sauce; and spicy beef stew which Bilbo claimed was the easiest to make, given its similarity to a dish called _goulash_.

Thorin moaned with almost every bite, piling his plate for second and third helpings. Luckily Bilbo was unfazed by his voracious appetite, eating just as much – if not more.

By the time dinner was over, everyone was leaning back in their chairs, groaning and patting their full bellies. The contented silence did not last long; Frodo practically bounced in his seat, apparently not as achingly full as the adults.

“Uncle, Uncle!” he cried. “Can we do it now?”

Bilbo sighed, fixing his nephew with an exasperated stare. “Frodo,” he began slowly. “You know I planned for after dessert –”

“Please!” the boy interrupted, blue eyes wide and lip jutted out into a pout. Even Thorin felt inherently guilty as he looked at the adorable child, and he had no idea what they were even talking about.

“Help clear the table, then,” Bilbo instructed, standing up to pile the empty plates together.

Thorin struggled to his feet, ignoring Bilbo’s polite, half-hearted demands to sit back down. Fíli and Kíli joined their friend in helping, though it seemed their goal was only to pester Frodo endlessly about what was happening. Dís got up as well, and Bilbo seemed frankly horrified at all his guests working. As soon as the dishes were piled in the kitchen, Bilbo ushered everyone out and back to the parlour. The Durins settled down as the Bagginses continued down the hall, murmuring secretively to each other. Dís scolded her sons as they bounced up and down in anticipation, though Thorin had to admit he, too, yearned to fidget restlessly.

Not one to sit patiently, Thorin stood, pacing towards a nearby table. There was a silver vase sitting in the middle, with an array of flowers sticking out. There were pink flowers, white ones with drooping petals, delicate crinkling red, beautiful whites. Some of the flowers looked like roses – something even Thorin could recognize – save for the wrong colouring. Nestled amongst the larger petals were collections of small flowers. Their quintuple petals were bright blue, with a yellow ring inside. Thorin lifted a finger, almost afraid to touch – surely his fingers would damage the beautiful delicacy.

“Forget-me-nots.”

Thorin jumped slightly at the sudden voice, spinning around to face a sheepishly apologetic Bilbo.

“Those blue ones, they’re called forget-me-nots,” he explained, lips suddenly pursing. “So perhaps you’ll understand that I could never forget you,” he confessed, soft voice underlined with a steely tone. “And perhaps you won’t forget me, either, and pick up your own _bloody phone_.”

Thorin’s mouth opened to rebut, but Bilbo held up a hand. “Come on, then,” the Englishmen said, nodding his head towards the couch. “We have something for you all.”

Once Thorin was settled back down, seated next to his sister, Bilbo went to stand with his younger cousin, in front of the Durins. After a moments pause, Bilbo said, “I did as much research as I could.” He sounded almost apologetic, when Thorin felt he should be incredibly proud. “I read that this is a celebration to commemorate your creation, as you are a people different from all others. I did not find much else, save for the value your people put on smithing – something you have already told me a bit about, Thorin.” Licking his lips, Bilbo turned to his young ward. “Go ahead, Frodo,” he encouraged gently.

Frodo shuffled forward, smiling shyly as he gave his young friends each a small package. Thorin frowned at the colourful wrapping, but his nephews seemed to have no trouble, ripping it open to reveal long, thin material. Blue, green, and red thread wove together in a geometrical pattern.

“It’s a friendship bracelet,” Frodo explained, wrapping the material around each boys’ wrist, holding his arm up to show off his own, which Bilbo must have put on when they left the room. “We wear them so everyone knows we’re best friends forever,” Frodo vowed, grinning as he was pulled in a tight hug.

“Best friends!” Fíli declared, Kíli echoing, “Forever!”

Smiling softly, Bilbo turned to Dís. “I’m afraid I must confess I didn’t make this,” Bilbo sighed, lips quirking as he handed the woman a small bag.

“Bilbo,” Dís said, standing up to give the Englishman a gentle hug as she recieved the present. “Thank you so much.” Bilbo seemed a little flustered, nose twitching as he fiddled with his waistcoat.

Dís’ gift was not wrapped in the strange material in the same way the boys’ had been, but there was crinkly, light paper sticking out of the bag, coloured gold. The woman plucked the gold paper out of the way without a care, pulling out a necklace from within. On a delicate yellow-gold chain hung an oval pendant, outlined with curved engravings.

“A locket,” Dís murmured reverently, gently opening the pendant.

“I know you care very deeply about your family,” Bilbo said, stammering slightly as Dís looked back up. “I thought you could put a picture of your sons and brother in there, so even when they’re out, they’re still with you.”

Thorin’s heart clenched at the sweet words. Reaching out, he gave Dís’ hand a squeeze, feeling her fingers wrap around his tightly. After a moment she stood back up, though instead of giving Bilbo a hug, this time she bent down to press her forehead against his. Bilbo’s hands fluttered between them, and if it were not for the emotional moment, he would have chuckled. But Dís moved away soon, thanking the Englishman once more before sitting back down.

Thorin’s gift lacked a small speech beforehand, unlike the others. In fact, the way Bilbo shoved the package at him was almost curt. As the man wrung his hands nervously, it was clear he was worried about Thorin’s reaction. The Ereborean pulled out the strange, flimsy paper, though much more delicately than his sister had – it seemed to be a peculiar decoration placed on top of presents. More paper was folded inside, though as Thorin picked it up, he felt a weight. Slowly he unfolded it, finally revealing a small silver item in the middle.

The breath caught in Thorin’s throat, the man choking slightly as he tried to form words. He lifted a shaky hand, running a reverent finger along the cool metal.

“I’ve always admired the beads in your hair,” Bilbo explained, voice tight as he hurriedly explained. “The engravings aren’t my own, but I did choose the design.”

Thorin chuckled, though the sound came out breathy and strangled. Of course the design was Bilbo’s; the hair bead was covered in beautiful, small flowers.

“I-I hope it’s acceptable,” Bilbo continued. “Of course, it’s nowhere as-as beautiful and meaningful as your own, but –”

Bilbo cut off his sentence as Thorin leapt up, pulling the man into a tight embrace. His arms shook slightly as they wrapped around Bilbo’s shorter form, nose burying in the top of Bilbo’s curly head. Bilbo’s arms came around his bulky torso, though perhaps not as tightly. It was a long moment before Thorin finally pulled away, though only moving far enough to press his forehead against the man’s.

“Do you like it, then?” Bilbo asked softly, staring up at Thorin with his wide, hazel eyes.

Thorin gulped, and nodded, unable to speak just yet. His gratitude warred with a great pang in his chest; Bilbo knew nothing of the significance of such a gift. It was foolish of Thorin to get caught up in such hopeful emotions. The gift was just a gift; it was no declaration, it did not hold the intention of courting.

Pulling away, the Ereborean dipped his head. “Thank you, Bilbo,” he murmured. “I love – it.” Turning back to his sister, he motioned to his hair. Dís stood immediately, removing his hair tie and running her fingers through before plaiting the strands together. Thorin adamantly ignored the soft look his sister gave him, understanding her brother’s torment.

She braided the bead on the left side of his head, close enough so he could pull it forward and admire the gift. It was not the braid he longed for, on the right side of his head, starting at his temple and curving behind his ear.

But that did not mean that he would never receive such a braid. As the Ereborean looked up, he caught the Englishman’s gaze. Bilbo lips twitched into a nervous half-smile, blooming into a grin when Thorin smiled warmly at him.

Perhaps one day, Bilbo would plait a betrothal braid into his hair, and Thorin would do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akhminruki mê: thank you wholeheartedly, informal “you”  
> Ya harmu: basically means you are welcome  
> Margelu id-mehar: Celebration of the Creation. Margel – feast of all feasts (celebration); -u: (of), participation in an action as a patient or agent (I think that fits this?); id-: the; mehar: supreme creation.  
> Ilbêm – cleaning (the act of)  
> Thorin said, “I will eat my beard.” This is based off the Dwarrow Scholar’s Khuzdul phrase “az zâblagi targê” which translates to “I will eat my beard very soon,” something one would say when they are very hungry. (I’ve been waiting since, like, chapter 2 to find a way to fit this in!!!!!)
> 
> My idea is that today is to celebrate the day Mahal created them; traditionally, Ereboreans would create something by their own hands in their chosen craft (be it smithing, writing, painting, etc.) for their loved ones. (If anyone wants to know more about Aulë creating the Dwarves, let me know, as I did a lot of research for this...that kind of didn't end up fitting in!)
> 
> I also did a lot of research on what flowers Bilbo decorated with, but I couldn't explain all the meanings. (And given some of them, Bilbo would likely not want to admit!) So in case anyone is wondering, Bilbo decorated with: forget-me-nots (Bilbo, you snarky ass); gardenias (secret and blooming love); casablanca lilies (celebration); pink tulips (caring); anthurium (hospitality); purple lilacs (the first emotions of love); lisianthus (appreciation); and red carnations (admiration, love, affection).  
> 


	20. Chapter Twenty

The sirens were their first warning.

As they approached the Durins’ apartment, the car was forced to slow to a crawl. Police littered the streets, attempting to guide mingling passersby.

“I wonder what’s going on,” Bilbo muttered, half to himself as he leaned forwards over the steering wheel, as though to get a better vantage point.

A block away from the apartment, the police had set up a barricade. Slowing to a stop, an officer ambled over towards the car, Bilbo dutifully rolling down his window. Thorin stiffened reflexively, turning his head away from the policeman.

“Any of you live down this street?”

Perhaps sensing Thorin’s discomfort, instead of immediately replying _yes_ , Bilbo asked, “Why?”

“I’m afraid there was a fire in one of the apartments,” the policeman explained.

“So, do any of you –”

“No,” Thorin answered abruptly. His eyes squeezed closed as the officer leaned closer towards the window, shining a flashlight in the refugee’s direction.

“Ah, no, thankfully not, officer,” Bilbo stammered slightly. “It’s just, this way is generally faster.”

The officer nodded slowly, lowering the light as he stepped back from the car. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to take the long route today, sir.”

“Thank you, officer,” Bilbo bid politely, rolling his window back up and turning down the street to their left. Hands gripping the wheel tightly, Bilbo bit out, “May I ask why I just lied to an officer of the law, Thorin?”

Thorin ignored the question, feeling the unease in his stomach grow into an uncomfortable, nagging pit. There was no reason to believe they were involved in any way – yet the back of his neck prickled warningly, legs aching to run away, and _fast_.

“Stop,” he growled, pointing to the curb. As the car idled, Bilbo turned to the Ereborean, likely expecting an explanation. Instead Thorin undid his seatbelt. “Wait here,” he instructed.

“I’m coming with you,” Dís said immediately, unbuckling her belt in the backseat.

Thorin opened his mouth to protest, but his youngest nephew beat him. “Mommy, where are you going?” Kíli asked.

“Don’t worry, mizim. Uncle Thorin and I will be right back, you boys just stay here with Uncle Bilbo.”

Though her words pacified the boys, they were not enough for Thorin. “Dís,” he began, only to be interrupted sharply.

“I’m coming with you, nadad,” Dís repeated assertively. “The boys will be safest here.”

“Wh-what are you talking about?” Bilbo floundered, mouth opening and closing as he glanced between the siblings.

“If it is safe, I call you,” was all Thorin said, jumping out of the car without another word and slamming the door shut.

It was an easy thing, getting lost in a crowd of civilians in the night. Thorin was thankful he had forgotten his bright work vest at Bilbo’s – it vaguely crossed his mind that he would have to retrieve it, but at the moment, it mattered not. Dís was not one inclined to wear bright colours, her dark outfit blending into the surrounding night seamlessly.

The Durins stayed close together as they slipped in between people, careful not to alert anyone to their presence. No doubt they looked like simple onlookers like everyone else, but the less attention they drew to themselves, the better.

As they approached the familiar apartment, Thorin stopped abruptly, his sister colliding with his back. As she drew in a breath, no doubt to berate him, he heard her gasp. Her eyes must have landed on the scene in front of them.

“Thorin,” she breathed, one her hands sliding into his, seeking reassurance.

Thorin backed up, gently tugging his sister with his until they were pressed against the wall. Across the street from them, in place of their rooms was a gaping black hole. The wall was eaten away, exposing their home to the world. But a home no longer, for all was charred a gut-wrenching black.

At the sound of beeping, Thorin spun around, seeing his sister on her phone. With a snarl he reached out, attempting to grab it, but Dís danced away, shaking her head adamantly.

As the other line picked up, she said one word: “Go.”

Hanging up immediately, she removed the battery from her phone, motioning for Thorin to do the same.

“Come on,” she murmured, tugging her brother forward. The man stumbled for a moment, though he quickly overcame regained his balance. The siblings continued down the street, this time worrying about speed more than discretion. If their house had been targeted, the people would likely still be here.

As they came towards the end of the block, Dís turned around. Her face turned towards her brother, but her eyes darted behind him. Jaw tightening, she glanced at Thorin for but a second before turning back, stride quickening.

“What is it?” Thorin whispered.

“Two,” was all his sister said.

Thorin did not dare turn around. Instead, the moment they rounded the corner to the adjacent street, both siblings broke out into a run. Pedestrians jumped out of the way as the two hurried down the street, those who were not fast enough risked being shoved out of their path.

Dís’ youth had always meant she could outrun either of her brothers, even though Thorin was taller by a few inches. Yet now it seemed the eldest’s construction work had paid off, long legs propelling him forwards. Admittedly, the difference was not much, but had it been any other situation, Thorin would have bragged quite haughtily.

Stomping feet could be heard behind them, a few outraged citizens yelping as they were likely moved aside none too gently. The sounds only served to propel the siblings forward, a familiar panic sending the blood coursing through their veins.

Thorin slid his phone back in his pocket, the warmed plastic threatening to slide out of his sweaty palms. It was impossible to navigate where they were going – all that mattered was the echoing steps ringing in their ears, demanding them to push harder, run faster.

He could hear Dís gasping beside him, though her steps refused to falter. Thorin’s chest burned with each breath, lungs aching as though fingers pushed in between his ribs, crushing the sensitive organs.

It had been many years since the siblings had lived this life, yet it was like falling back into routine. Cutting through alleys, slinking in the shadows, slipping between cars on crowded streets and ignoring the blaring horns.

Eventually they stumbled down an alleyway, crouching behind a large garbage bin. The stench burned their noses, dry throats throbbing as they huffed for breath. Thorin’s chest stuttered, aching to cough, but the Ereborean forced it down.

Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen.

There was no sound of pounding feet or chasing assailants. There was simply chatter as people passed by, a few boisterous, drunken laughs.

Locking eyes with his sister, he noticed her fierce, determined gaze. Inclining his head, he nodded to the right, down the opposite end of the alley. Dís stood immediately, sliding against the wall as she approached to look out.

Throughout his life, Thorin had wished for nothing more than to keep his family safe, his younger sister especially. But he knew sheltering her from harm was not the way to do so – nor was it the way of their people. Smaller and slighter than Thorin, Dís was able to sneak around unnoticed more easily. Her keen eyesight gave her a great advantage, as well. It was with a heavy heart but complete confidence that he sent his sister ahead.

As Dís lifted a hand, surreptitiously waving him over, his burning, empty lungs flooded with air. Shaky legs pushed him to his feet, the Ereborean walked to the exit. The street was quite empty, other than a few stragglers.

They took this time to break apart their phones, smashing the plastic and metal into oblivion and scattering the pieces. The prepaid plans were always bought in cash, which meant they could not be traced, but it would not do for someone to find the devices and extract information from them.

“There’s a bus stop down the street,” Dís murmured, head jerking to the sign down the street. They slunk towards the sign, leaning against the nearby shop wall inconspicuously. Both siblings fidgeted nervously, eyes glancing around constantly.

“We could keep moving,” Thorin proposed, only for Dís to shoot him an unimpressed look.

“We’ll only make ourselves more lost,” she said.

As Dís demanded, they waited for the next bus’ arrival. No one passed by the street at all, and as the bus finally pulled up, the Durin’s pulled out their Oyster Cards. Tapping the cards against the machine, Dís plucked a pamphlet from the front of the bus.

Thorin had hated the cards at first – he did not trust giving away his money pre-emptively on something that could only be used on transportation. But tonight, he was immensely grateful, as the Durin’s, once again, had not a penny to their name.

Settling at the back of the empty bus, Dís unfolded the paper. When Thorin made to grab it, Dís shoved him away.

“You can’t even read, you idiot,” she mocked, though the words lacked any bite.

His sister had an acute eye, spotting Bilbo’s street sooner than Thorin likely would have been able to, even had the map been in Khuzdul. She went on to plot out their transfer route, circling and writing along the roads with a sticky pen Thorin found on the floor nearby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mizim - jewel  
> For anyone unfamiliar with British transportation, such as myself: Oyster Cards are these cards you fill with money, and can swipe them any time you use the tube/bus/etc. The cost is automatically withdrawn from the card, and I believe you can fill them up when they’re done. I couldn’t find any more detailed information, but I am assuming here that there is a little machine on each bus, like a tap-and-go kind of get-up.  
> This was my first chase scene ever, so feedback/constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!! (Also, don't kill me?)


	21. Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments/feedback always appreciated :_) thanks to everyone who comments, especially with each chapter!

Never had Thorin been so relieved to see the green door to Bag End. He slumped against it, hoping the thudding sound of his body would be enough to alert Bilbo. Dís, at least, summoned the energy to knock; her fist beat against the door with swift rapidity, likely desperate to see her sons safe and sound.

At the metal clanking of the lock being turned, Thorin barely struggled to his feet before the door swung open. Dís charged in, immediately demanding to see her sons. Bilbo looked down right thunderous, though he murmured the directions to Frodo’s room. As she all but ran down the hall, Bilbo yanked Thorin in, glancing outside before slamming the door shut and carefully locking it.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed, shaking the collar of Thorin’s shirt furiously.

Thorin grabbed Bilbo’s hands, squeezing them with desperate tightness. “Someone follow you?”

“No!” Bilbo exclaimed. Thorin sighed, shoulders sagging in relief. But Bilbo was having none of it, demanding, “Tell me right now, Thorin Durin! What the _hell_ was that?”

“Our home is gone,” Thorin confessed. Bilbo’s mouth opened and closed, brows furrowing as he digested this information. “Fire,” Thorin he explained.

“How?” Bilbo asked. “Is there anything left? Can anything be salvaged? How bad was the damage?”

Thorin let go of Bilbo’s hands, pacing down the hall agitatedly. “I do not know how,” he lied. “All is gone.”

“Was it arson? Was it accidental? Maybe someone –”

“I don’t know!” Thorin yelled, hands flying up in frustration.

Bilbo gnawed his lip, fingers fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Why don’t I – can I get you some tea?”

As Bilbo hurried towards the kitchen, Thorin could feel his knees buckling beneath him. Slowly he slid down the wall, resting his head on his knees with a tired groan.

Bilbo returned a few minutes later, naked feet padding silently against the hardwood floor. “Oh, Thorin,” he lamented. “I didn’t mean for you to sit here – come on, you should go lie down.”

A gentle hand lay on Thorin’s shaking arm, the Englishmen tutting softly as he carefully knelt in front of the refugee.

“I don’t know,” Thorin mumbled, voice hoarse. Shaking fingers burrowed in his hair, pulling in frustration. “I don’t know,” he repeated.

“It’s all right, Thorin,” Bilbo murmured. “We’re going to figure this out.”

But the Ereborean shook his head. How, how could they possibly find a way out of this mess? Four years, _four years_ it had taken Thorin to get this far. To build this life – it wasn’t much, but it was _something_. He had never appreciated what they had, and now it was gone. Were they to be beggars in the street? Would Fíli and Kíli never know what it was like, growing up in a proper home? How would –

“Hey, hey, hey.” Bilbo’s soft voice interrupted the refugee’s terrified thoughts. “Breathe. In and out,” he murmured as Thorin gasped for breaths, whole body racked with tremours. “Just breathe in and out with me.” Bilbo inhaled and exhaled slowly, and with exaggerated loudness, encouraging Thorin to follow the pattern.

For long minutes Bilbo sat there, quietly patient, rubbing a hand along the man’s back, stroking his hair and pulling messy strands out of his face

“There you go,” he whispered finally. Thorin’s chest ached with residual pangs, his limbs felt shaky and weak, but his lungs no longer gasped for air. When he lifted a trembling arm, Bilbo slotted his smaller body underneath, pulling Thorin into a tight embrace. The Ereborean buried his face in the warm crook of Bilbo’s neck, shakily inhaling Bilbo’s comforting, familiar scent.

“We’re going to figure this out,” Bilbo said, voice firm. “You’re not alone, Thorin.” He gave the man a tight squeeze, saying again, “You’re never alone. I’m not going anywhere; I’ll do everything in my power to help you. Don’t think for one second that you have to bear this burden all by yourself.”

Thorin was sure his grip was painfully tight, but it took him a while to relinquish his hold. When his arms finally slacked, Bilbo pulled away, cupping Thorin’s jaw. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Thorin’s forehead before pulling the man back into a hug.

 

When Thorin finally made it up to see the boys, they were all fast asleep in Frodo’s bed. Dís stood over them in a silent vigil. Thorin quietly padded up, giving each child a kiss on the forehead. He stayed there a moment, bent over, simply listening to them breathe.

Dís followed them out, quietly closing the door behind her.

“There’s a bedroom right beside them,” Bilbo said, nodding to his right. “You can stay there, if you’d like, Dís.”

The woman gave Bilbo a thankful, if tired, smile. Gently clasping Thorin’s shoulder, she walked to the room without another word. As much as Thorin was desperate to talk, he knew she needed time to process everything that had happened. If Bilbo was correct, no one had followed him here, and Thorin was quite sure Dís and he had made it to Bag End undetected. They would be safe, at least temporarily.

 

Bilbo set Thorin up in a room across from Dís and the boys. He fussed about, shaking out the comforter and needlessly re-arranging the sparse furniture.

“I’ll try to find clothes for everyone,” he said as he flitted around. “I wonder if my father’s clothes would fit you, I’m sure I’ve got some things in storage. Oh, but really, it will only be until I can go shopping anyways.” It seemed Bilbo had forgotten he even had an audience, voice trailing off as he left to explore down the hall. Thorin was far too fatigued to even wonder if he should follow, but Bilbo returned soon.

“Here’s a towel,” he said, handing an impossibly soft material into Thorin’s hands. “Come, I’ll show you to the guest bathroom.”

 

Thorin could not remember the last time he had had hot water beating down on his skin. He could have stayed in there all night, were he not so tired. All his aching, tense muscles melted into blessed relaxation. The soap was cloyingly fruity, but the Ereborean lathered himself up three times nevertheless. Even though it would take hours to dry, he cleansed his hair. Bilbo’s showerhead was powerful, able to soak through his densely thick waves. At home – and the remembrance that such a thing no longer existed sent a painful throb to his heart – the showerhead had been terribly weak, making it almost impossible to give his hair a proper wash.

After the shower, he strolled back to his temporary room in a daze, practically lulled to sleep by the residual heat and his utterly relaxed muscles. He had tied the towel around his waist – at least as far as it would go; the ends barely reached each other around his hips, and there was a large gap exposing his left thigh – and half-wondered if he should simply sleep undressed. He couldn’t bear the thought of putting back on his sweaty, stinking clothes.

Before he could drop the towel, Bilbo burst in through the door.

“Thorin, I have your – oh, dear Eru!” Bilbo dropped the bundle of clothes in his arms, hands slapping over his gaping mouth. “I’m – I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…” Awkwardly trailing off, he grabbed the clothing, all but throwing it at his guest. “I hope they fit well enough, at least,” he mumbled lamely, turning around to give Thorin some privacy.

Had the day gone differently, Thorin would likely have quite embarrassed himself, to be caught almost naked. He may have even been intrigued by Bilbo’s flushed cheeks and lingering stare. But now, he just tiredly dragged on the clothes. The pants were of a stretchy material, but fit quite oddly – too big around the waist, too tight around his thighs, and tapering off at his knees. The shirt was much the same, but he was just appreciative for anything to wear.

Collapsing on the bed, Thorin grumbled a rather impolite _thanks_. Tired as he was, he wasn’t even sure he managed to make it out in English. Shivering, he tried to burrow into the blankets, but they were trapped under his body weight.

He was rather content to just leave it, but Bilbo ambled over, tutting and fussing. He yanked the blanket out from under Thorin’s heavy form, laying it over him. The Englishmen took a moment to sit on the bed, running a hand through Thorin’s wet hair. The Ereborean hummed appreciatively, head lolling back.

As exhausted as he was, Thorin found he could not sleep; his body shook with intermittent tremours, mind whirling with cut-off thoughts and memories. Turning around, he reached out, fingers curling on Bilbo’s thigh. His hand was soon encompassed by another smaller one, which he gave a tired tug.

“Don’t go,” Thorin mumbled, words heavy and hard to pronounce on his thick tongue.

There was a moment’s pause where Thorin wondered if Bilbo was going to refuse – or perhaps his request had come out in the wrong language, too harsh on Bilbo’s foreign ears. But then the man was sliding under the blankets, his small form easing gently towards Thorin’s.

The refugee was asleep almost the moment Bilbo curled up against him, his buzzing mind finally asleep. He managed to sling an arm around his companion’s plump waist, pulling the other man impossibly close, before falling dead asleep.


	22. Twenty-Two

Perhaps it was all the adrenaline leaving his system suddenly, but Thorin did not have any nightmares that night. He slept quite deeply, half-awaking only a few times. All he could remember was incredible softness enveloping him, a warm body pressed up against him, fingers stroking through his hair…

The Ereborean frowned as he stretched, limbs constricted by his oddly tight clothing. Rolling over with a moan, he buried his face in the plush, feather-down pillow.

Memories of last night trickled in slowly, of the fire, of Fíli and Kíli being safe… of Thorin practically collapsing on the floor, Bilbo being the only thing holding him together. After that, everything became fuzzy – he kissed the boys goodnight. His hair smelled oddly fruity… Groggily, Thorin ran a hand through. Still damp in places, and silkier than it had been in years. He only vaguely recalled taking a shower – it was more the feeling of heat than anything. And Bilbo… Bilbo had stayed, had he not?

Head whipping up, the refugee shook the long strands of hair out of his face as he searched the surprisingly large bed. But in spite of how small Bilbo was, it was clear he was not here. Not anymore – or had he been here at all? Thorin’s head pounded with the effort of remembering; perhaps it was just wishful thinking after all. Thorin could not imagine summoning the courage to ask Bilbo something as improper as sharing a bed, and he doubted the Englishman would suggest such a thing, either.

Thorin slowly got out of bed, his feet leading him towards the nearby washroom without his brain fully realizing. There were brand new toothbrushes laid out on the sink – two larges ones and two child-sized ones. Thorin tore into the blue package, scrubbing his teeth furiously. He ran his damp hair through with a brush – new as well, from the looks of it. There was a new bar of soap with which he scrubbed his face. The refugee half considered taking another shower – if only to feel that steamy heat on his back once again – but decided against it. More than anything he wanted to talk to Bilbo, and to his sister, and figure things out from here.

 

Thorin quietly checked the rooms across the hall until everyone was accounted for – Frodo, Fíli, Kíli, and Dís were all fast asleep. He made his way down the winding staircase, almost getting lost in Bag End’s maze of hallways. When he finally came across the familiar sitting room, he breathed a sigh of relief. From there on, the kitchen was easily found ( _empty_ ), as was the dining room _(empty_ ).

Stepping into the parlour, Thorin froze immediately. Someone sat on the sofa facing away from Thorin; all he could see was the person’s long, wavy grey hair.

“Oh, Thorin!”

The refugee looked up only when Bilbo called his name; the Englishman jumped from his own seat, fussing with the cushions before waving the Ereborean over. “Come, have a seat – I already made breakfast, let me go fix you a plate!”

Thorin stayed frozen, waiting until Bilbo approached. “You have company,” he hissed, unable to stay his accusatory tone.

Bilbo’s nose twitched in thought as he placed a hand in Thorin’s. “He’s an old family friend – I’ve known him since I was a babe. I would never put you at risk, Thorin. I _know_ Gandalf.”

Thorin was not convinced, but Bilbo’s eyes were earnest and pleading. Yet what were the chances that an old “friend” would show up right after their apartment was bombed? Nevertheless, the man already knew he was here – the best option Thorin had was to figure him out, see why he was here.

With a jerking nod, Thorin pulled from Bilbo’s grasp and steeled himself for an introduction. Bilbo tutted, though instead of leaving to make breakfast as he had offered, he followed Thorin further into the room. The refugee wondered if the man had sensed his apprehension, and sought to put him at ease; though he would not admit it, he was more relaxed with the Englishman’s company.

But as Thorin walked further in, finally in view of this _Gandalf_ person, his face fell in shock before his lips curled into a snarl.

“Tharkûn!” Thorin growled. He had not seen the mysterious man in four years, yet he could never forget his face.

“Thorin, how nice to see you,” Tharkûn replied, bowing his head slightly as his lips curved in a wry smile.

Thorin sneered at the mocking display, fists clenching at his sides. “What are you doing here?” he accused.

Tharkûn reached forward, humming softly as he took a sip of tea. He seemed completely at home, entirely unsurprised to see Thorin here – far too unsurprised, in fact.

“D-Do you…know each other?” Bilbo asked slowly, glancing between his guests bewilderedly.

Thorin grunted, arms crossing over his chest. “Tharkûn bring us to England,” he explained.

Bilbo turned to his guest and apparent _old friend_ with a heavy frown. “I didn’t realize you work in immigration, Gandalf.”

Tharkûn raised a brow, eyes twinkling. “I work in many areas,” he drawled vaguely.

As Bilbo huffed and rolled his eyes, Thorin wondered distractedly if Bilbo, too, was used to the man’s mysterious ways.

“Well, seeing as you two are already…acquainted, I’ll grab you some breakfast, Thorin.”

The Ereborean watched the other man go, eyes narrowing to slits as he turned back to Tharkûn.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed in his native tongue.

“Why, I am merely visiting an old friend,” Tharkûn replied innocently.

“I know you,” Thorin continued. “You never do anything by _chance_. How did you know I was here?”

“Why, Thorin,” Gandalf huffed, the convincing façade of an old man. “It is a happy coincidence that I find you here.”

“ _Coincidence_ is not a word I would ever use with you,” Thorin retorted.

“Is it not?” Gandalf replied, seeming damnably amused.

“Oh, Gandalf!” Bilbo exclaimed as he returned, carrying a full tray, of which Thorin was quick to relieve him. “I didn’t know you spoke, ah – Khuzdul!”

“He should not,” Thorin growled, switching back to English, lips curling back angrily.

Tharkûn sighed, as though eternally suffering. “Ereboreans are very secretive,” he explained to Bilbo. “They refuse to share their culture and language with outsiders.”

At this, Bilbo looked back to Thorin, head cocked and brows furrowed in confusion. The refugee immediately averted his gaze, trying to focus on the mouth-watering array of food in front of him, ignoring the reddening of his cheeks. It was a pitiful evasion, but he could not bring himself to explain just yet – and certainly not in front of Tharkûn of all people.

Bilbo cleared his throat, fingers toying with his ascot. “Well,” he began after a prolonged silence. “It’s quite interesting that we should both know Gandalf.”

Thorin frowned, the repeated name finally sinking in. “Gandalf?” he repeated.

The slightly confused, obvious look Bilbo directed at him was humiliating. “Gandalf,” Bilbo repeated slowly, gesturing to Tharkûn.

Thorin’s teeth ground together as his jaw clenched painfully tight. He hated the way Bilbo repeated the word with exaggerated slowness, condescension the Englishman had never treated him to in the past.

“Yes, that’s right,” Tharkûn sighed as he received one look of confusion and another of suspicion. “In Erebor, I am known by the name of Tharkûn. And Thorin,” he turned to the man in question, “Here, I go by Gandalf.”

His words only served to deepen Thorin’s suspicion. “And what kind of sorcerer need go by so many names?” he hissed in Khuzdul.

Tharkûn refused to answer, huffing as though insulted. Thorin continued to glower, though he knew it was in vain; Tharkûn never revealed that which he did not intend.

“Um, is everything…alright, Thorin?” Bilbo asked awkwardly.

When he refused to answer, Tharkûn confessed with a heavy sigh, “I’m afraid Thorin holds an old grudge. You see, Bilbo …” Tharkûn paused, reclining back and removing a pipe, as if preparing for a long story.

“Excuse me, but there will be no smoking in my house!” Bilbo interrupted.

Tharkûn grumbled, fumbling with the carved wood for a moment before finally pocketing the unlit pipe. “Thorin feels I did not do enough to save his grandfather and father when the civil war began.”

“Binarzåm hu tada taglibi ‘aimu-galikh kuthu tharkh tadi,” Thorin snarled bitterly.

“Thorin Durin!” Gandalf exclaimed, the first hint of real emotion on his cool, aloof countenance. “I warned your grandfather of what was to come.”

“Not soon enough!” Thorin jumped from his seat, waving an angry fist at the vexing man. “We did not have enough time to even prepare – we were forced from our homes by _fire_ and _guns_! My grandfather and father made their choice, yes. But my brother? My sister’s husband? I had to watch them _die_! I could do nothing to help. I had to –” Thorin cut off as his voice broke. The rant left his chest heaving, throat dry, and limbs shaking. “My father and grandfather were loyal to their country to a fault,” Thorin continued brokenly, voice quivering. “You should have known they would not heed your advice – you should have come to _me_ , I could have – I could have _saved them_.”

Bilbo could not have known what he said, yet the Englishman stood, reaching out a comforting hand. Thorin shrugged it off, breath coming out in gasps. It was too much, it was all too much for Thorin. The air felt damp, too thick for his stuttering lungs to handle. His ears rang with a piercing and shrill echo. He could hear the gunfire – it was louder than one would expect, terrifyingly rapid.

The Ereborean looked around in confusion, legs stumbling beneath him. Smoke crawled up his nostrils, singeing his throat and burning his lungs.

When had Tharkûn lit his pipe? Thorin’s mind raced, memories of blood and fire and screams overwhelming his senses.

His shaking legs were moving before his thoughts could catch up, racing towards the nearest exit. Even as the fresh air hit his lungs like icy needles, outside was no better. Strange, foreign houses lining the street… they’re going to burn, his mind screamed. They were just tinder, waiting to go up in flames.

Even his home had not been impervious to fire – his hands burned as he pushed open heavy doors, the burning flames heating the thick wood to scorching. He could hear Fíli and Kíli screaming as the air filled with smoke – but no, Kíli wasn’t there. And Fíli… they were safe, they were safe, he tried telling himself.

The refugee collapsed to his knees, screaming and pulling at his hair in frustration and overwhelming fear. The memories were inescapable, battling with the present. Thorin was deaf to Bilbo’s calls, numb to the thick blanket the Englishman threw around his heaving shoulders.

He was lost to his memories, memories he had pushed away for far too long, pain and guilt and fear all but consuming him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon, Gandalf goes by many names; he is known as Tharkûn amongst the Dwarves.
> 
> Binarzåm hu tada taglibi ‘aimu-galikh kuthu tharkh tadi – faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [Eldor](http://eldor.tumblr.com) on tumblr made some fanart for this fic which you guys should all take a second to check out and appreciate [here](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/post/137654798469/eldor-hello-again-d-just-got-home-from-seeing) . It didn't happen in any written scene, but I'm pretty sure we can all picture Thorin doing this! Thanks again :)
> 
> Prepare yourselves for a long chapter!

Bag End was quickly becoming a temporary home for the Durins.

The pain of loss had yet to sink in for Fíli and Kíli, who seemed to think of their situation as merely an extended sleepover. Thorin knew their reactions would come in time, but for now, he was simply glad to see them happy.

Bilbo had been a tremendous help, beyond opening his doors to the once-again displaced family. The Englishman had gone out, returning hours later with bags upon bags of clothing, toys, and treats. Thorin could not believe his eyes when he saw the brand-new, no doubt costly items. Bilbo had refused to accept his and Dís’ profuse thanks, murmuring about how it was _really no trouble at all_ and _please, don’t mention it_.

In that moment, Thorin knew that he would never be able to repay Bilbo Baggins for all the man had done for them.

But Thorin refused to sit idly by and allow his debt to simply increase. Tharkûn had barely waited for Thorin to recover from his poorly timed _…episode_ , before announcing his departure and vowing to return soon with a plan.

Thorin knew all too well that Tharkûn’s sense of time did not correlate with reality; _soon_ could mean weeks from now. It was this knowledge that had Thorin pulling Dís aside one evening, leading her out to the back porch. Bilbo’s backyard was enclosed by high fences, too tall for even Thorin to see over. That, and the cover of darkness, assured Thorin it was safe to seek privacy in the cool, fresh night air.

“I know what you’re going to say,” his sister started, voice weary beyond her years.

“Then there is nothing to discuss,” Thorin replied, entirely unsurprised by her answering snort.

“There’s no reason for it.”

“No reason?” Thorin repeated, turning to Dís, eyes wide in shock, body shaking in sudden anger from the _unfairness_ of it all. “No rea–” Thorin cut himself off, words bitten between clenched teeth. “Every day we stay,” he said slowly, “We put Bilbo and Frodo at greater risk.”

“They won’t find us here,” his sister insisted.

“They found us before! How can you be so sure they will not do so again?”

“They found us because we got sloppy,” Dís reasoned. “We drew too much attention to ourselves.”

Thorin flinched back, turning away as he raked a frustrated hand through his hair. Thorin knew – his sister might never admit it, but he knew -- everything that had happened was his fault. Losing their home…Thorin’s chest tightened with the heaviness of guilt.

“We’ll be more careful this time,” Dís continued, laying a gentle hand on Thorin’s shoulder.

“Are you willing to put Bilbo’s and Frodo’s lives at risk? Your _sons_?”

Thorin’s heart clenched at the pained, terrified look on Dís’ face, but he could not regret his harsh, but honest words.

“My sons are safest here,” Dís said, expression hard with determination. “The people chasing us will expect us to run. That’s why we need to lay low for a while, here in the city. Besides, Tharkûn will return soon enough – he’ll help us.”

“But at what cost?” Thorin muttered. Sighing, he rubbed a hand through his thick beard. “I will give him five days,” Thorin vowed. “No more, Dís.”

Despite his unyielding terms, his sister stepped forward and pulled his forehead against hers, arms winding around his shoulders.

“You’re doing what you think is best,” she murmured comfortingly. “I have faith in you, nadad.”

Dís sat down on the porch with a sigh, dragging her brother down beside her. She laid her head on his shoulder, Thorin’s arm wrapping around her as they stared up at the stars. A moment of peace seemed so rare for the siblings, both reveling in the quiet.

The spell was eventually broken as the back door creaked open, Bilbo’s curly-haired head popping through the crack.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt!” he called as the siblings turned towards him. “Just wanted to make sure everything is alright.”

Dís stood with an exaggerated groan, waving Thorin down as he made to join her. “I’ll go watch the boys,” she explained, walking back towards the house. Pushing Bilbo outside, she murmured something the Ereborean did not catch, though whatever it was left Bilbo spluttering.

“Meddling woman,” Bilbo grumbled as he settled next to Thorin, shooting the refugee a sheepish look.

“She is, how you say…” Thorin trailed off, brows furrowing as he searched for the term – something nonsensical…

Bilbo waited in patient silence, laughing as Thorin finally exclaimed, “Nosey!”

“Nosey, indeed,” Bilbo agreed, tapping his nose as he chuckled quietly.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Bilbo said after a moment, nose twitching as he fidgeted with his exposed suspenders. “I’m really glad you’ve decided to stay, if only until Gandalf returns.”

The Englishman’s shy demeanor fell away as he stared at Thorin, with warm eyes and a soft smile.

“I’m sure that old wizard has something up his sleeve,” Bilbo continued, chuckling softly before his expression grew earnest and serious once more. “But if he doesn’t – Thorin, you’re always welcome here. And I’m not – I’m not just saying that out of false politeness, or obligation, or whatever you may think. I’m proud to say I’ve gotten to know you these past weeks, and while I don’t really – despite what I hope for, I don’t actually know where this,” Bilbo gestured between the two of them, “may lead. But just know, I’m not going anywhere. I may not know everything about you, but I doubt there’s much else you could surprise me with.”

Thorin’s jaw clenched at Bilbo’s light tone, the Englishman painfully unaware of how untrue that statement was.

“None of that matters, though, because I’ve seen enough to know _you_ as a person – a wonderful, selfless, stubborn, _infuriating_ person.” Bilbo knocked his shoulder against Thorin’s, eyes twinkling playfully as the Ereborean cracked a smile.

“What I mean to say is, I’m not going anywhere. I told you that you aren’t alone, that we’ll figure this out together, and I meant every word, Thorin Durin.” Bilbo reached out, warm fingers wrapping around Thorin’s large hand.

“Frodo – Frodo will always be my priority,” he continued. “Just as I know Fíli and Kíli will always be yours. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be there for you, because I will; now and always.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin croaked, throat raw from Bilbo’s heartfelt speech. Jaw dropping, his tongue desperately fought to form words to describe the overwhelming gratitude he felt, knowing anything he could say would ultimately fall short.

“I – I do not know if we can stay,” he revealed instead, cursing himself as he clutched at Bilbo’s hand, grip desperately tight as his eyes burned to convey what words could not.

Bilbo smiled, comforting if strained. “You do what’s best for your family, Thorin. I wouldn’t ask anything else of you.”

Bilbo reached up, running his fingers through Thorin’s thick locks before pulling their foreheads together. Thorin’s eyes squeezed shut, stinging against a flood of emotion.

“Bag End will always be here,” Bilbo whispered. “ _I_ will always be here, waiting for you.”

Thorin exhaled shakily, fingers curling into Bilbo’s silky, short strands. “There is so much –” he broke off, wetting his cracked lips. “I need to tell you, so much you do not know,” he confessed, ridden with guilt, yet unable to let go.

Bilbo pulled away, nose brushing against Thorin’s as his hands cupped the Ereborean’s bearded cheeks.

“When you’re ready,” he said sternly. “And not a moment before.”

Thorin gulped, nodding shakily. As much as he longed to purge himself of the guilt and secrets weighing him down, he could not find the words – not yet.

Bilbo’s fingers danced along Thorin’s jawline as his other hand slipped behind the Ereborean’s head, gently cradling the back of his neck. Bilbo’s tongue darted out, wetting his pink lips as his gaze dropped to Thorin’s mouth. Thorin’s heart hammered in his chest as heat pooled in his stomach, watching the other man’s eyes darken with desire.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his eyes drifted shut. The refugee was frozen, breath catching in his throat as the other man leaned forward, gently pressing their lips together.

The touch was feather-light, Thorin barely feeling a warm pressure. But then Bilbo’s lips were moving, slanting against Thorin’s with a little more force. Thorin’s hand reached up, sliding against Bilbo’s smooth cheek to pull him closer, desperate for more even though he was unsure of _how_.

The movement was easy enough to mimic, Thorin hesitantly parting his lips, trapping Bilbo’s bottom lip between his.

Bilbo slowly pulled away, only to lean forward and pepper Thorin’s lips with small, quick pecks. His hazel eyes were half-lidded, red lips pulled into a lazy grin.

Thorin’s entire body hummed with barely restrained energy; everywhere Bilbo touched burned, begging for more. His lips, his cheeks, the nape of his neck, their thighs brushing together – it was all too much, yet Thorin knew it could never be enough. His limbs felt light and free, heart soaring with sudden liberation.

“Men lananubukhs astu, mizimelûh,” Thorin declared reverently, eyes shining as his lips pulled into a wide, unrestrained smile. “I love you, Bilbo Baggins. You are khî marlelûh – my only love.”

A giddy laugh bubbled up Bilbo’s throat as grabbed Thorin’s face in both his hands, pressing one last messy, smacking kiss to his lips before pulling away.

“I love you, too, you dramatic oaf,” Bilbo said, yelping as Thorin pulled him into a bone-crushing embrace.

 

 

“The trolls spent so much time arguing amongst themselves about how they were going to cook the captured knights, they didn’t see the sun’s first light cracked over the top of the trees!” Bilbo read dramatically from a story he had written for his young ward. “And poof! It turned them all to stone!”

Fíli and Kíli gasped from their seats on the floor, exchanging shocked looks with Frodo, whose own blue eyes were wide with amazement, as if hearing the story for the first time.

Dís chuckled from her armchair, giving the boys a fond, tender look.

“Hmm, just on time,” Thorin whispered skeptically in Bilbo’s ear, earning a scowl.

“Everyone’s a critic!” Bilbo huffed, pulling away from his spot nestled in Thorin’s side to give the cheeky Ereborean a rough elbow.

Thorin groaned loudly, clutching his injured ribs. “Fíli, Kíli,” he grunted, falling against the back of the sofa. “Save me from this troll!”

“We’ll save you, Princess Thorin!” Kíli cried as the boys leapt on their host without hesitation, even Frodo joining in to turn against his older cousin.

Dís burst into laughter as Thorin struggled to right himself, blinking owlishly. “Princess?” he exclaimed incredulously.

“A very pretty one, too,” Bilbo interjected, grunting as Kíli accidentally kneed his stomach.

Even though he knew the compliment to be in jest, Thorin couldn’t stop the flush crawling up his throat.

Just as the children pushed Bilbo down onto the cushions, climbing on top of him triumphantly, the doorbell rang.

Thorin and Dís leapt up immediately, staring at each other before turning to the kids.

“Dís, take them upstairs,” Thorin said, pulling the suddenly silent children off of Bilbo.

Finally freed, Bilbo stood, straightening his clothes as he frowned. “Well, surely it’s just Gandalf,” he said, slight stammer belying his words.

Dís ushered the boys out of the room, murmuring promises of extra dessert if they behaved. She shot her brother one last look as she left the room, eyes worried but lips pursed determinedly.

Thorin yanked a lamp’s cord from the wall, bracing the object in front of him before nodding Bilbo forward. The Englishman shot him an unimpressed look, no doubt dismayed by the idea of his ornament being used as a possible weapon.

Both men trod silently towards the door, Bilbo peeking through the peephole before shooting Thorin a worried look. The Ereborean gestured for Bilbo to go on, all the while tightening his grip on his makeshift weapon.

“Can I help you?” Bilbo called through the door.

“Dwalin,” came a deep, heavily accented voice. “At yer service.”

Shattering ceramic echoed through the silent house as the lamp fell from Thorin’s suddenly lax grip. Springing forward, he peered through the small glass hole before unlocking the door with trembling fingers. Flinging it open, he stared in amazement at his beloved cousin before tackling the man to the ground in a fierce, tight hug.

“Mahal wept!” Dwalin exclaimed, grabbing Thorin’s head before whacking their foreheads together. “I thought ye were dead!’

“So did I,” Thorin said, voice thick as he clutched his friend tightly. “How did you find us?”

“That thrice-damned Tharkûn!” Dwalin growled, before pulling away with a frown. “What d’ye mean by _us_?” he asked.

Thorin’s mouth dropped as he remembered his sister, no doubt wondering what in Mahal’s name was going on. Leaping to his feet and tugging his cousin up, he turned around, only to come face-to-face with a gaping Bilbo.

“Erm…” the Englishman managed, eyes darting back and forth between Thorin and the newcomer. You two… know each other, I presume?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from Bilbo’s “book” is originally from PJ’s FOTR, tweaked a bit.  
> I think there was a post once about how to say “One” in Khuzdul (going with the trope of Dwarves only having one love in their life, though not in the sense of a pre-destined soul-mate). Anyways, I couldn’t find it, so I threw together my own butchered Khuzdul.  
> Khî – one, love of all love – marlel, my – (suffix) ûh. Basically, my one love, (greater than all others).  
> So this story is coming to a close, I expect there to be…maybe 3 more chapters left. I don’t actually know yet; I’ll know when it’s written, basically, but that’s my estimate. I just don’t want there to be any huge surprises (the fact that it’s coming to an end snuck up on me, actually!!), so that number may change. If you're really enjoying this (which I hope you all are!), don't panic, there will be a sequel. I'll discuss that on the last chapter, though.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE: This chapter is late because I spilled water on my laptop and now it is not working. Luckily I had access to this chapter through email, and am currently using someone else's laptop. I will be taking my laptop in to be repaired in a few days, and fingers crossed it will work. However, I have no idea how long that will take. I will not have regular access to a computer, so I can't say when the next chapter will be. If you are anxious/interested enough, I will post updates on my tumblr when I know if it can be repaired, and how long that will take. My username is airebellah, and any updates will be posted under the tag "teach me your ways."  
> This is an older version of what I was supposed to post, but I really have no motivation to go over it more thoroughly, so... try to enjoy.

Dwalin was the first of many Ereborean refugees to arrive at Bag End that night. Next came Dwalin’s older brother Balin, though the Durins were prepared for his arrival. That did not make their reunion any less painful, the long-lost cousins holding each other closely, afraid to let go.

Bilbo stayed back, wringing his hands nervously before darting away once more, never staying long enough for Thorin to properly introduce him.

The boys remained upstairs, Dís having put all three to bed sometime after Dwalin’s arrival. It was far too late for so much excitement, and Frodo would be overwhelmed by the unknown guests; Fíli and Kíli could wait until morning to see their distant cousins, the former likely not remembering them, and the latter having never met them anyways.

Óin and Glóin were next to arrive, followed shortly by Ori, Nori, and Dori. Admittedly, Thorin would be hard-pressed to say if the Ri brothers were distant cousins, or merely old family friends. But he embraced them as kin all the same, gladdened to see others from his homeland.

An unfamiliar trio arrived next, though Balin was quick to usher them in. “These men worked in your grandfather’s mine, as you may recall,” he said.

“Bofur’s me name,” said a man in a large, floppy hat, as he introduced himself. “This here’s my brother Bombur,” he said, slapping a hand on a large, red-haired man’s shoulder before pointing to the third member of their party, a man with silver-black hair. “And that’s me cousin Bifur.”

Bofur’s wide grin fell as he suddenly grew somber. “We would see your family on the throne, where they belong,” he said gravely. 

Thorin bowed his head in deep thanks. “My family is greatly honoured to have your loyalty in these hard times.” Reaching forward, he clasped each man’s elbow, Bifur grunting a rough, “Uzbadu men.”

Thorin motioned them towards the parlour, making sure they first added their boots to the growing collection before going any further. Bifur seemed resistant to the idea, muttering to his cousin in a dialect Thorin struggled to interpret.

“Ancient Khuzdul,” Balin said, sounding greatly intrigued.

Bofur looked up, glancing between them with a guarded expression. “Bifur suffered a great head injury in the uprising, y’see. Can only speak in ancient Khuzdul now.”

“Can he understand us?” Thorin asked, lips twitching as Bifur growled something that had Bofur barking in laughter; Bifur was no doubt annoyed by the patronizing question.

Smile falling, he told the injured warrior solemnly, “You are safe here. Take off your shoes, be at peace – you need not fear anything while you are here.”

Bifur grunted as he pressed a fist over his chest, bowing. Returning the gesture shallowly, Thorin left the trio in Balin’s hands as he headed towards the kitchen, in search of his beloved.

Bilbo was hunched over the counter, arms covered in flour as he kneaded a large ball of dough, when Thorin found him. Thorin walked up behind him, intending to wrap his arms around the smaller man when Bilbo yelped, spinning around.

“Thorin!” he exclaimed. Licking his lips, he glanced to the hallway before lowering his voice. “Now, I’m happy to have your guests over, but – who are they, exactly?”

“My family,” Thorin said, a huge smile spreading across his face at the words. “I did not – I thought they were all dead.”

“Oh, sweet Eru,” Bilbo gasped, reaching up to pull Thorin into a tight hug. “Thorin, I’m so sorry! But what a relief, to have them back!”

Thorin grinned into Bilbo’s curls, inhaling his familiar scent.

“How did they know where to find you?” Bilbo asked as he pulled away.

“Tharkûn,” Thorin growled.

“Well, I suppose you can’t tell me how many to expect?”

“No one needs anything from you, ghivashel. You should not make anything.” Tugging his beloved forward, he said, “Come, let me show you everyone.”

Bilbo pulled out of his grasp, arms crossing over his chest, thankfully covered by a large apron. “Thorin Durin, if you think I would have guests in my home – your family, no less!” Bilbo glanced away, nose twitching as his voice caught. “Without preparing a meal,” he continued, glaring as though deeply offended. “I would have to doubt whether you know me at all!”

“I know you, âzyung,” Thorin said with a tender smile. “But I try anyway.”

Bilbo laughed as he pushed the Ereborean out of the room. “Stop spending your time with me, now! Go visit your family; if there’s not enough seating, I’ll grab some things from storage!”

Thorin waved Bilbo’s concern away as he left to rejoin the people he never thought he would see again.

 

When the impromptu dinner was finally ready, Bilbo popped his head through the doorway of the parlor, trying to subtly motion Thorin over. But as luck would have it, he ended up gaining the attention of the entire room.

“Ah, hello everyone,” Bilbo stammered slightly, dragging himself into the suddenly silent room.

As the new arrivals broke out into muted mutterings, giving Bilbo looks of varying degrees of mistrust, Thorin leapt up, pulling the Englishman to his side as they faced the room.

“This is Bilbo Baggins,” he introduced. “Bilbo is why Dís, Fíli, Kíli, and I are here, safe.”

Everyone looked appropriately surprised, staring at the Englishman with newfound respect and intrigue. Thorin turned to Bilbo with a wide, thankful smile, squeezing his hand encouragingly before slipping into his native tongue.

“Bilbo is my One,” he announced, ducking his head shyly as Bofur whistled loudly. “We are guests in his home, and he is to be treated with the greatest respect.”

Amongst loud praises and well-wishes, Thorin’s family stood, bowing deeply to the would-be King and his beloved.

“Oh, well, you don’t have to –” Bilbo shifted uncomfortably, turning to Thorin uncertainly. Thorin simply smiled in response, expression tender as he gazed at his love.

As the congratulations came to an end, Bilbo left to retrieve extra furniture, only for the Ereboreans to follow him to the storage room. He was absolutely horrified as they rushed around to prepare the dining room, bringing in an extra table and chairs from storage.

“Put that back!” Bilbo demanded as Ori carried in a chair, the young man shooting Bilbo a shy, sheepish smile, though he did not stop. Bilbo quickly jumped out of the way of Dwalin and Thorin as they brought in the extra table. “No, put that – put that back, you’re  _ guests _ !”

Bilbo groaned as they refused to listen, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. Thorin chuckled under his breath, knowing his family only wanted to show their respect and appreciation.

As they all settled down for dinner, Thorin recognized the looks on their faces – shock at seeing so much food, such  _ delicious _ -smelling food, after struggling to simply make ends meet for so long.

“Go on, then,” Bilbo encouraged as they stared in silence, clearly hungry yet almost afraid to eat.

Bilbo did not need to tell them twice as everyone started filling their plates without hesitation, ignoring the cutlery Bilbo had set out for them all in favour of the fresh, unleavened bread Bilbo had made.

The Englishman sighed, though he did not try to hide the smile on his face. Despite having eaten a large dinner only hours ago, Bilbo filled a plate for himself, nudging it towards Thorin with a questioning look.

Thorin glanced over to the man beside him, as he and Bilbo were sitting together at the head of the table. Shaking his head, he turned back to Dwalin, sliding his hand under the table to rest on Bilbo’s thigh.

Dinner neared an end, the noise growing louder as the Ereboreans focused less on filling their stomachs and more on catching up. Bilbo found a fast friend in Balin, who was fluent in English and very well-read.

Over the pleasant hum of conversation, Thorin almost missed a tapping on the door. Standing, the room fell silent as everyone turned to him. Soon it came again –  _ tap, tap, tap _ .

“He is here,” Thorin growled, charging towards the door. No one else would arrive so late, rapping on Bilbo’s door with the impatience of an invited guest forced to wait out in the cold. But despite his certainty, Thorin glanced through the peephole, glaring as he opened the door.

“Tharkûn,” he greeted coolly.

“Thorin, Bilbo,” Tharkûn acknowledged. “How good to see you.” Stepping in the threshold, Gandalf began unwinding his grey scarf. “I trust everyone made it here all right?”

As Tharkun was striding towards the dining room, Thorin was hot on his heels. Tharkûn paused at the front of the room, mumbling to himself as he counted.

“Ah, good,” he finally said. “We are all here.”

“Good thing ye put that mark on the door,” Dwalin said.

As the others nodded in agreement, Glóin added, “Wouldn’t have found it at all, if it weren’t for that.”

“Mark?” Bilbo gasped, turning in the direction of his front door as though he ached to check over it right away. The conversation was unfortunately in English, ironically for the man’s benefit. “There is no mark on that door!” he exclaimed, wagging a finger at a smirking Tharkûn as though vowing retribution should he be proven wrong.

“It is no matter,” Tharkûn declared, ignoring the icy glare he received. “We have more important things to discuss,” he reminded, taking the empty seat Thorin had begrudgingly set aside for him.

“Like how you know my family is alive,” Thorin hissed. “You do not even tell me!”

The room broke out into agreement, Dwalin cracking his knuckles as Bifur signed furiously.

“You had better have a good reason for your trickery,” Dís warned.

“Believe it or not,” Tharkûn began, sighing as though he was surrounded by slow-witted children. “I did not have a hand in  _ all _ of you making your way here – in fact, it has taken a considerable amount of time and effort on my part, finding you all. Besides, had I told you about each other – what would you have done? Revealed yourselves, that’s what! It was safer for you to be scattered, unaware of each other. You are much harder to track down that way; had you been in communication at all, should one of you been found, it could mean destruction to you all.”

“We will take your word, but do not mistake it for gratitude,” Dís said.

“Duly noted,” Tharkûn replied dryly. “Now as I said, we have more important things to discuss. I told you I had a plan, and do not think a family reunion will solve all your problems.”

“So what is your plan?” Thorin asked, gripping Bilbo’s hand anxiously.

“Take back your homeland,” Tharkûn revealed dramatically, motioning for the dishes to be cleared before he spread out a map.

A hush fell across the room as Bilbo leaned forward, brows furrowing and lips moving silently, examining the parchment. “A map of Europe?” he asked, glancing up at Tharkûn’s inscrutable expression.

“The usurper may have been happy to watch the line of Durin toil away like commoners,” he declared, ignoring Bilbo’s question as he glanced around the room. “But there is a new power arising.”

Thorin flinched, eyes squeezing shut as he remembered the war breaking out, insurgents razing their homes.

“The Defiler wants you dead – all of you,” Tharkûn stated. Turning to Thorin, he continued, “Thorin, you can wait no longer. You are the heir to the throne of Durin.”

“Wait, what?” Bilbo exclaimed, shrill voice revealing his panic and confusion. “What are you – what?”

Thorin sighed heavily, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Fourteen people gathered around the table, only one of whom did not speak Khuzdul. Yet instead of speaking in the Ereborean tongue, of  _ course _ Tharkûn would speak in English. Not only did he leave many amongst them struggling to understand, Thorin included, but he revealed an enormous secret to the one person who did not know.

“Please tell me…” Bilbo trailed off, voice quivering. “Please tell me I just misheard that.”

“Amrâlimê,” Thorin murmured, reaching out to the trembling man beside him.

“No!” Bilbo yelled, stumbling as he pushed himself away from the table.  “You can’t – is it true?”

Thorin stood, hands raised placatingly as Bilbo’s palm flew up in the universal sign of  _ stay back _ . The Englishman’s eyes were wide, mouth falling open. Thorin’s chest tightened at the look of utter  _ betrayal _ .

“My grandfather was king,” Thorin revealed, every word painful. “But the zazn uslukh took it from him.”

“Don’t just play semantics with me,” Bilbo countered hotly. “Gandalf said – are you a  _ king _ , Thorin?”

“I-I should be,” Thorin confessed.

“Huh,” Bilbo muttered as he stumbled away. The colour drained from Bilbo’s face, the man bracing his hands on his knees as he began taking shallow, rapid breaths.

Thorin surged forward, only to freeze as Bilbo threw up his hand once more, making a small, strangled sound.

“Ye alright, laddie?” Balin asked gently, quietly rising to his feet.

“Yeah, I’ll be –” Bilbo cut off, cheeks filling and deflating with his stuttered breaths. “Air, I need air,” he mumbled, straightening suddenly.

“Bilbo,” Thorin croaked, drawing the Englishman’s eyes to his own, watching them widen in shock.

“Nope,” the curly-haired man muttered before his eyes rolled back, body collapsing.

Thorin leapt forward, grabbing the limp man before he could hit the floor. “Bilbo?” he shouted, tapping his hand against the man’s soft cheek.

“Hngh,” Bilbo mumbled, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his eyes struggled to open.

“How could you do this?” Thorin snarled, turning to Tharkûn accusingly.

“Thorin Durin, if you were too stubborn to tell Bilbo the truth sooner, it is entirely your own fault.”

“Ishrêg gamil siginkann!”

Tharkûn’s brow raised in pretended shock at Thorin’s insult.

“Here,” Dís’ soft voice interrupted as the woman materialized at Thorin’s side with a damp cloth. Fingers trembling, Thorin took the proffered item, pressing the cool material to Bilbo’s forehead.

“Take him upstairs,” his sister ordered softly, voice hardening with authority as she turned to the others. “We’ll finish this tomorrow.”

Thorin dropped the cloth, wrapping an arm around Bilbo’s waist as he helped the shaky Englishman to his feet. Together they made their way upstairs, Bilbo pushing half-heartedly out of the refugee’s grip. Once in Bilbo’s room, the man went straight to his bed, lying down and facing the wall.

Thorin stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do. He wished to apologize for all the wrongs he had committed, yet his shame silenced him.

Bilbo calling his name pulled the Ereborean from his conflict; Thorin stiffened, steeling himself for the berating he knew he deserved.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Bilbo asked instead, sounding hurt.

“I was,” Thorin said. “I plan to, I promise you, ghivashel.”

“I’m going to need some time,” Bilbo warned, sounding weary beyond his years.

Thorin nodded silently, forcing himself from his beloved’s side.

“Wait!” Bilbo called as Thorin reached the door. The refugee turned, eyes shining hopefully. But Bilbo looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

“Could you, ah, find rooms for everyone? And check on the boys, please. I’m sure we weren’t loud enough to wake them, but…” Bilbo trailed off, hands wringing the blanket nervously.

Thorin jerked a nod, quietly shutting the door as he went to do his love’s bidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uzbadu men – my king  
> zyung – love  
> Zazn uslukh - foul (zazn) dragon (uslukh)  
> Ishrêg gamil siginkann - ishrêg (lying) gamil (old) siginkann (man [impolite term])  
> Some of the lines have been adapted/taken from AUJ and DOS.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

A cold, hard pit lodged itself in Thorin’s stomach, refusing to abate. Guilt ate away at him as he lay awake all night, staring up at the dark ceiling. But not only did his betrayal plague him; Thorin thought of Tharkûn’s words, the duty now weighing upon his shoulders.

The refugee pulled himself from his bed, unsure of when he had fallen asleep. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Thorin made his way down the hall, pausing at Bilbo’s closed door. Before he had the chance to second-guess himself, Thorin’s knuckles rapped against the cool wood.

There came no reply, though Thorin was not entirely surprised. But he refused to allow his cowardice to overcome him. “Bilbo,” Thorin began, feebly relieved for the barrier between them. “I am sorry. I cannot say how sorry. I wanted to tell you, but –” The man cut himself off, shaking his head; now was not the time for excuses. “I should be king in Erebor. That is why they attack my home. I – I lied to you. Please take my apology.”

As silence met him, Thorin sighed softly, leaning his forehead against the door. His fingers danced along the doorknob, itching to twist the cold metal. But he pulled himself off, head bowed in disappointment as he trudged to the staircase and down towards the parlour.

As a light, tinkling laughed carried from the kitchen, Thorin paused before the open doorway. Slowly he peered inside, watching as Bombur handed Bilbo a spoon. Bilbo popped the contents into his mouth, eyes widening.

“Bombur!” the Englishman exclaimed. “This is so good!”

Bombur’s head ducked bashfully, a blush reddening his bearded cheeks.

Bilbo turned around, freezing as he spotted Thorin. Holding a finger up to his companion, he murmured, “One sec,” before walking towards the newcomer.

“Good morning,” Bilbo greeted. His smile, while strained, was surprisingly inviting.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said stiffly, relieved Bilbo had not been ignoring him moments before upstairs. “I am sorry,” he said, bowing deeply as he tried to quickly recall his poorly worded apology.

“Oh, none of that,” Bilbo grumbled, tugging Thorin upright. As the refugee opened his mouth, Bilbo raised a silencing finger. “Just let me speak, alright?”

Thorin’s jaw snapped shut, impatient yet scared to hear Bilbo’s words.

“I told you to tell me whatever secrets you had on your own time. Now, I certainly don’t appreciate being left in the dark, but it’s hard to stay mad knowing you and your family are at risk because of this information,” Bilbo said, lips twisting wryly. “As I said last night… I’m going to need some time to adjust. But don’t think, even for one second, that this changes anything between us.”

“It does not?” Thorin asked, gobsmacked.

Bilbo’s hard expression softened suddenly, the short man pulling Thorin into a tight hug. Thorin melted against Bilbo, cursing the way his betraying body shivered with relief.

“I still love you, you idiot,” Bilbo admonished gently. “Royalty or not. I don’t care about titles; I just love _you_.”

As Bilbo pulled away, Thorin captured his lips in a heated kiss. “You will be with me still?” he asked, caressing Bilbo’s cheeks.

“Yes, silly,” Bilbo said, laughing as Thorin kissed him once more, sloppy and frantic with relief.

“Now go!” Bilbo said sternly, pushing Thorin away. “I’m in the middle of cooking breakfast, and Bombur is teaching me a lovely new recipe!”

Practically humming in happiness, Thorin bounded to the parlour. The refugee smiled to see the room filled with his family, surging forward to greet them all when an arm slung around his neck.

“Mornin’, Yer Majesty,” Dwalin hailed mockingly.

Thorin twisted out of the light grip, turning to bump foreheads with his cousin and old friend. “You’ve lost a lost of hair since I last saw you,” Thorin commented with a grin, the morning’s atmosphere light enough for familiar teasing.

Dwalin scowled, reaching out to swipe at the other man. Thorin ducked, though it would seem his reflexes were not what they used to be. Dwalin’s arm hooked around his neck, yanking him off balance.

“Yer hair is almost as white as my brother’s!” Dwalin growled, grunting as Thorin tackled his middle, both men wrestling to the floor, slinging insults at each other the whole time.

“Boys, that’s enough!” Balin scolded finally.

The cousins quickly pulled apart, both ducking their heads as though they were children once more.

But Thorin’s shame quickly dissolved as he leapt up. “Balin!” Pulling the elder man aside, he revealed,. “I must speak to you at once.” Ignoring the interested stares of the others,he led the white-haired man into the hall. Once alone, Thorin took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders to face the man who had always guided him growing up, a man he had thought long lost.

“Balin, I want you to draft a zarb.”

“About damn time!” Dwalin exclaimed.

Thorin jumped, glaring as he turned to the eavesdropper.

“This does not concern you,” Thorin growled even as he fought down a grin.

“Laddie.” Balin reached up, hand squeezing Thorin’s shoulder. “We’re happy for you.”

Thorin grinned unabashedly, knocking his forehead against Balin’s before letting himself be pulled into another headlock by Dwalin.

“You can write in fluent English, yes?” he confirmed.

“Aye,” Balin agreed. “I’ll write a draft in English and Khuzdul for the both of ye.”

Hearing Bilbo call everyone for breakfast, the brothers started towards the dining room.

“Balin,” Thorin called urgently before their privacy was disturbed.

“Aye, laddie,” Balin said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ll have it for ye by the end of the day.”

When Dís brought the children down, it was almost impossible to contain the Ereboreans’ excitement. Thankfully they at least took turns introducing themselves (if only because of Dís’ fierce warning not to overwhelm the small children). But as it turned out, all the stories Dís and Thorin had told Fíli and Kíli about their cousins were enough for the boys to feel as though they had known the men their whole lives. Of course, it did not hurt that the boys were showered with endless attention and love by the newcomers. Dwalin noticeably teared up as he got to hug his once-removed cousins, Fíli for the first time in years, and Kíli for the first time _ever_.

Frodo was more leery, but a quick order from Thorin had everyone giving the boy space, even keeping their raucous tones to “indoor voices,” as Bilbo put it. Interestingly enough, Frodo was drawn to Bifur. The wounded man kept more to himself, making it easier for Frodo to approach him. It seemed they did not even need language to communicate; Frodo asked what Bifur was making, and the man showed the boy the raven he had been whittling from a wooden block. Frodo was absolutely determined to see how it was done, Bifur obligingly taking out a new block and starting the process from scratch.

When the conversation finally fell away, Tharkûn turned to Thorin with a grave nod. “Fíli and Kíli, go and play in the other room,” he ordered. The boys grumbled and complained until Bofur offered to play with them; the boys had taken to Bofur’s wide grin and silly hat, even more so than Dwalin, whom they were scared of yet intrigued by.

“I’ll take Frodo as well,” Bilbo said, pushing back from the table to collect his ward, who sat gazing at Bifur like a hopeful apprentice.

“Actually,” Tharkûn interrupted. “You are needed here, Bilbo.”

The Englishman turned to Thorin, bewildered; Thorin in turn glared at Tharkûn.

“You shall see in good time,” was all the riddle-maker would reveal.

Bilbo huffed, grumbling about meddling old men as he turned to Frodo. “Frodo, my boy,” he called. “Would you go and play with Fíli and Kíli for a while?”

Frodo pouted, earning a round of _aww_ ’s from the table of battle-hardened warriors. But before he could argue, Bifur pulled a carved toy from his pocket, handing it to the boy to play with.

“Thank you, Mister Bifur!” Frodo exclaimed, blue eyes twinkling as he gave the man a smile before running off, no doubt to show the toy off to his friends.

“Why wait so long?” Thorin asked as soon as the boy left.

“I have been gathering information, putting plans in order.”

“You waited until we were homeless and desperate!” Dís accused.

“Your whole lives, you have been homeless,” Tharkùn countered, voice thundering. “You were robbed of the lives you should have had – all of you! _Every single Ereborean_ , since Smaug came!”

“You will not say his name!” Thorin yelled in Khuzdul, hands slamming on the table and startling his One.

“There are innocent people still under his rule, caught between a greedy dictator and the blood-thirsty militia trying to take over,” Tharkùn reminded.

“All I want is a safe life for my sons,” Dís said lowly.

“And _are_ they safe?” Tharkûn countered. “The Defiler will never stop hunting you.”

“How are we to stop him?” Dwalin interjected.

“We number just twelve,” Balin continued. “And not twelve of the best, nor the brightest.”

“Ah, but therein lies the advantage,” Tharkûn said. “As two armies wage war against each other, no one will notice such a small group. You will have the element of surprise.”

“To do what?” Glóin huffed, his accent thick and rough. “Surprise them to death?”

As the table broke out in jeering laughs and derisive snorts, Dís raised her hand. “We will hear him out,” she ordered, silencing the room with ease.

“As long as he has been in power, there is something that the usurper still does not know.” Reaching into his sleeve, an object glimmered between Tharkûn’s fingers.

All noise fell away as Thorin stared in wonder. “How came you by this?” he asked, voice rough in his native tongue.

“It was given to me by your father, by Thráin, for safe-keeping,” Tharkûn revealed. “It is yours now.”

“Thorin, this is –” Dís cut off, staring at her brother with wide, amazed eyes.

“I know,” he murmured, carefully placing the key into his sister’s hand, watching as she caressed it reverently, gaze transfixed.

“What is it?” Bilbo whispered, leaning in to Thorin’s side.

“It is the key to Ered Mithrin, the royal palace of Erebor,” Dís explained softly.

“Beautiful,” Bilbo breathed, eyes tracing the intricate designs.

“There is a secret passage none but the royal family know about. Smaug has never found it. The people of Erebor are threatened into obedience, too afraid to make a stand. Unite the armies, Thorin. They will show courage with the return of their king.”

The words sunk in slowly as Thorin stared at the key, a real, physical sign. He looked up, seeing his sister’s hard, determined gaze.

Fist closing around the key tightly, Dís turned to Tharkûn. “What about my sons?” she asked.

“Ah, there is a safehouse I know of called Rivendell. It was created so any may go there and fear not war, nor conflict of any kind. It is a sacred place, undisturbed by time and politics. The leader has agreed to watch after your sons, protect them.”

“These people have not earned my trust,” Dís warned.

“And you are under no obligation to leave your sons in the hands of someone you do not trust,” Tharkûn said diplomatically, eyes sliding towards Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone guess what a zarb is? ;)  
> Sorry for the cliffhanger! I think there will be two more chapters after this :)


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: “And you are under no obligation to leave your sons in the hands of someone you do not trust,” Tharkûn said diplomatically, eyes sliding towards Bilbo.  
> Warning: POV switches to Bilbo’s after the first break.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dís asked, looking between Bilbo and Tharkûn. The Englishman’s lips pursed as he stared at the mysterious old man in suspicious bemusement.

“I’m afraid England is no longer safe for you, Bilbo,” Tharkûn revealed. “You and Frodo must join us now - come to Rivendell, where you will be protected.”

Bilbo’s slackened face visibly paled, and Thorin placed a comforting hand on the man’s back. Luckily he remained seated, hopefully not in danger of another fainting incident.

“The agents have no doubt already started asking questions, interrogating neighbours. How long do you think it will take for them to find out a native Englishman was helping the Durins? How long before they are at  _ your _ door?”

“S-stop,” Bilbo stammered, wide eyes turning to the doorway as though he wished to seek out his young ward immediately, make sure Frodo was still safe.

“We will be departing soon, Bilbo,” Tharkûn continued. “After that, I cannot guarantee your safety, nor will I be responsible for your fate.”

“How dare you say such things!” Thorin snarled in Khuzdul before turning back to his beloved and wrapping a secure arm around Bilbo’s waist. “I will keep you safe,” he swore, cursing the emptiness of his promise.

“Bilbo, you will be needed. Our quest cannot spare a single member - Dís will trust you with her sons; without you, someone will have to stay behind. With numbers so few as we have, losing even a single member could prove detrimental.”

“I - I thought you said the small numbers were the advantage,” Bilbo quipped weakly.

Tharkûn huffed. “My point still stands. You and Frodo need protection, protection you will find nowhere else.”

“You want me to leave - abandon my life, and take the child whose  _ safety _ I have been trusted with, off - off into the  _ wild _ ?”

“It is hardly the wild, Bilbo Baggins,” Tharkûn huffed indignantly. “I am not asking you to stay in a guarded hotel room under lock and key, as though you were in witness protection! In fact, Rivendell is quite beautiful - it will be a vacation, more than anything else!”

“I - I need time to think,” Bilbo said weakly.

“We leave in the morning,” Tharkûn warned. “Do not be idle with your consideration.”

Bilbo stood, waving Thorin down when the man made to join him. “I need to think - alone, please.”

The table fell into silence as the Englishman stumbled away, Thorin glaring icily at the meddler.

 

Bilbo should have been spending his last day with Thorin - potentially his last day  _ ever _ \- curled up together, holding hands as they exchanged kisses and  _ I love you _ ’s. But instead he avoided the guests altogether, splitting his time between watching over Frodo and pacing in his room.

He was doing the latter, all but pulling out his hair in confusion and frustration, when there came a knock. Bilbo opened his bedroom door with barely-restrained violence, completely ready to give Thorin a good tongue-lashing, only for the anger to be forced from his lungs.

“Ah - Balin, is it?” he greeted the man before him awkwardly, dropping his raised finger with an apologetic smile.

Balin nodded his head, forked white beard framing a gentle smile. “Do ye have a moment, laddie?” he asked.

Bilbo stepped aside, wishing to ask for his privacy but compelled to be polite. “You can tell Thorin I haven’t made a decision, if that’s why you are here,” he warned.

“I am here on behalf of Thorin, yes,” Balin revealed. “But that is not why.”

“Oh,” Bilbo murmured, surprised. “Then what is it?”

Balin smiled widely, eyes twinkling with youthful merriment as he patted the folder hooked under his arm, Bilbo only noticing the object belatedly. ‘As a non-partisan party, I have drafted a contract for you, Bilbo Baggins, on behalf of Thorin Durin.”

“A… contract?” Bilbo repeated, blinking owlishly as he accepted the folder. Flipping to the first page, his aging eyes squinted as he read the first line. “ _ Conditions of Engagement _ \- Balin, what in Eru’s name is this?”

The smile slowly fell from Balin’s face, replaced with a confused frown. “Did he not explain to ye, laddie?” Balin asked. 

“Explain  _ what  _ to me?” Bilbo countered, voice growing hysterical.

Balin sighed heavily, no doubt mumbling curses under his breath. “I understand a proposal is very different in your culture; I made the mistake of assuming Thorin had explained our ways to you.”

“P-proposal?”

“Aye,” Balin said. “It is my understanding that Thorin wishes to marry you.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply to the frankly  _ insane _ comment, but nothing came out except for a surprised squeak. Turning away, he rubbed his hands over his face as he continued wearing a hole in the hardwood floors. 

“Why couldn’t he - why didn’t he just…”

“I’m afraid it ‘tis not done in our culture,” Balin explained, having guessed Bilbo’s question. “One person will express their intent to wed through a non-partisan party, such as myself. This leaves the proposee with the ability to accept or decline without any undue pressure.”

“Without any  _ undue pressure _ ?” Bilbo exclaimed, too caught up to notice his high-pitched tone. “This is not undue pressure, springing it upon me like this? When I already have to decide if I’m going to uproot my little orphaned cousin because  _ our lives are in danger _ ?”

Balin was surprisingly calm in the face of Bilbo’s hysterics; the mark of a true diplomat, as Bilbo would soon find out. “He could have planned this better, yes,” Balin agreed.

Bilbo’s lips quirked sardonically as he looked at the folder clenched in his hands. “He didn’t mean for it to be this way,” Bilbo murmured. “As you said - this is the custom of your people. Our whole relationship, I’ve encouraged him to teach me his ways. I can’t really fault him for not…” Bilbo sighed wistfully. “For not getting down on one knee. Oh, how silly of me!” Bilbo waved a dismissive hand, shaking his head. “I’m forty-three years old, not some starry-eyed youth!”

“Thorin has a tendency to do things without thinking,” Balin said.

Bilbo winced, eyeing the paperwork in his hands. He was surprised by how much the words hurt - what if Thorin feels he has made a mistake?

“I’ve known him since he were but a babe,” the older man continued. “I know when he is acting out of impulse. And this, laddie,” Balin walked over, placing a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Is not one of those times.”

“It’s not?” Bilbo asked with barely restrained nervousness, strangely desperate for the proposal to be genuine.

“One of the first things Thorin did was to declare you as his One,” Balin said. “Do you know what this means?”

When Bilbo shook his head, the Ereborean continued. “It is our belief that when Mahal creates someone from stone, he carves another from that same stone. This is our One, the one person we will love.”

“Like a soulmate?” Bilbo said.

“Aye,” Balin agreed. “That would be your term for it. Thorin has found that person in you, so you may believe me when I say his proposal is genuine.”

“But what if - what if he finds someone else, and decides he was wrong?”

Balin frowned, as though deeply offended by such words. “That is simply unheard of in our culture. Here in the West, it is common to be with many people - what you would call  _ dating _ . But an Ereborean does not give his heart easily; there is only one person he will love, with a deep, undying passion. There is simply no other.”

“Oh.” It was… beautiful, but with a heavy layer of responsibility. It was not like Bilbo pictured himself with anyone else… In fact, before Thorin, he had resigned himself to bachelorhood. But knowing he was Thorin’s first and  _ only _ felt like a great weight on his shoulders. Doubt still nagged at him - what if Thorin regretted choosing him? He knew what Balin had just said, but the insecurity could not be shaken.

“Would ye like to take a look, laddie?” Balin offered, nodding towards the folder.

“Right.” Bilbo nodded, smoothing a hand down his shirt nervously. “Right.”

Flipping to the front page once more, Bilbo’s eyes scanned the beautiful, flowing script.

It was very formal, much more like a legally-binding contract than a proposal. Bilbo’s lips moved as he silently read the words.  _ Proposed marriage on this day to Bilbo, son of Bungo… Both parties are declared to be of sound mind and body...Solemnly swears to court Bilbo Baggins in the way of the people of Erebor…  _

“A year long betrothal?” Bilbo read incredulously.

“Aye. Adequate time to prepare for your new roles as husbands as well as, traditionally, to build a new home together. However, you will see that is not stipulated - Thorin knows this home is very important to you, and does not wish you to feel forced from here.”

Bilbo hummed, the only sound of acknowledgement he could presently make, head spinning from the overload of information. Turning back to the page, he mumbled under his breath as he continued to read. “ _ Emotional, physical, and financial support  _ \- hmm, seems fair enough. Injuries in...the battlefield? And what’s - what’s this?” Bilbo’s eyes narrowed as he turned the page sideways, reading a clause cramped along the margins. “A  _ duel _ !?”

“Ah, yes,” Balin said, clearing his throat. “More a... _ formality _ , these days.”

“Formality,” Bilbo repeated, feeling a little weak. “Right.”

Licking his suddenly dry lips, Bilbo continued his perusal. “Ah, what does this mean -  _ loyalty is compulsory _ ?”

“As I previously said, an Ereborean only gives himself to another only once. Divorce is not even a concept in our culture, and adultery is greatly condemned.”

“So even if… Thorin died, I wouldn’t be allowed to, ah...  _ be _ with someone else?”

“Mahal forbid!” Balin exclaimed, muttering what seemed to be some sort of prayer under his breath. “Even under those circumstances, it would be seen as adultery.”

“Good to… know,” Bilbo said weakly. Reading down to the clause about inheritance, Bilbo frowned. “Ab intestato?”

“Having made no will,” Balin explained.

“Not only fluent in English, but you know Latin, as well?” Bilbo asked, genuinely impressed.

Balin nodded gravely. “I was the Royal adviser to Thror, Thorin’s grandfather. When he was King under the Mountain, as we say in our language, learning English and other languages was encouraged in order to create relations with other countries. While I am fluent in many languages, Latin is not one of them; I only know the terms used in the legal system. I found it was crucial for treaties.”

"That’s amazing,” Bilbo said. As Bilbo read about offspring, he licked his lips. “Not to get ahead of myself, but would Frodo -”

“He would be Thorin’s legal child, as well. I understand a formal adoption would be required in England, however by Ereborean law, Frodo would automatically be under Thorin’s guardianship from the moment you two are married. He would also be entitled to an inheritance, just as if he were Thorin’s natural-born son.”

“And Thorin understands this role he will be undertaking?”

“Aye. If you are worried about his suitability as a parent, Dís has told me he has been very active in filling the role of Fíli and Kíli’s late father.”

Bilbo smiled, thinking of all the times Frodo gushed about how  _ cool  _ and  _ amazing _ Thorin was. He remembered when Frodo slept over at the Durin’s, only to awaken from a nightmare. Thorin had been a nervous wreck the next morning when Bilbo came by, worried about Frodo’s well-being. His young ward had later confessed to being scared when he awoke in the unfamiliar home, but then  _ Uncle Thorin _ had read the  _ Hungry Caterpillar _ , and reminded Frodo that his parents were always watching over him.

“No,” Bilbo said softly. “I’m not worried at all.”

Almost nearing the end of the contract, Bilbo paused. “What’s this -  _ the sleep _ ?” he asked.

“In our custom, there are different stages leading to marriage. First, there is the marriage contract, which I am now presenting to you. Upon acceptance begins the betrothal, which in our language is called  _ the sleep _ . After the yearlong betrothal comes a feast, welcoming both families together. Then comes the exchange of vows, beginning the marriage - or, as we call it, the awakening.

“ _ The sleep _ and  _ the awakening _ come from the first people created by Mahal. Our forefathers slept together with their spouses - save for Durin, from whom Thorin and our family descend directly. But that is a story for another time! Carved from stone, they awaited the moment of awakening, when life was finally breathed into them. Then, they spent the rest of their lives together with their Ones.”

“That’s beautiful,” Bilbo said softly.

Balin smiled gently. “Do ye have any more questions, laddie?”

Bilbo’s nose twitched. “Can I have some time to think?”

“Of course,” Balin said, walking to the door. “Do not hesitate to ask anything,” he invited. “But I will advise you to keep in mind - though it goes against our traditions, I’m afraid our extraordinary circumstances mean you do not have long to decide.”

Bilbo nodded sharply, stomach twisting as he remembered Gandalf’s words - they will be leaving tomorrow.

 

After hours of deliberating, Bilbo finally made his way downstairs to find Thorin, and give his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you check out the ACTUAL CONTRACT I made!!!!!!! [Here is the link](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/post/139746236619/dwarvish-marriage-contract)


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are TWO chapters posted simultaneously this week. Please make sure you read both THIS chapter AND chapter 28!

Bilbo gripped the contract in his hands as he dragged himself towards Thorin’s room. Thankfully the Ereborean was alone, packing for the early morning departure.

Bilbo knocked softly, letting himself in at Thorin’s command. The man was bent over a suitcase, throwing his clothes in haphazardly. The Englishman could not contain his snort, fingers twitching to remove all the items and fold them properly. Thorin finally looked up, his long hair cascading over his shoulder. His eyes widened in surprise, clearly having not expected the Englishman.

“Bilbo,” Thorin greeted, trying to keep his tone neutral even as he glanced at the contract, clearly nervous.

“Can we sit down?” Bilbo asked, gesturing to the bed.

Thorin strode towards the furniture, carefully correcting the scattered blankets before motioning for Bilbo to sit. Thorin sat at the edge, leaving cold, empty feet between them.

“I can’t sign this, Thorin,” Bilbo confessed, swallowing painfully against the tightening of his throat. “I can’t come with you.”

Sparing a glance towards Thorin, he noticed the Ereborean looked straight ahead, his profile impossible to read.

“Frodo is, and always will be, my priority. And taking him from his new home and a stable environment...I just can’t justify that.”

“I do not ask you to leave your home. I can never ask that,” Thorin vowed, bright blue eyes turning towards BIlbo beseechingly. “I know how it is, with no home. I never want that for you.”

“I know, Thorin,” Bilbo replied, hand reaching out to tentatively brush against Thorin’s. “I know you didn’t plan for me to be involved in any of this, and I’m grateful you’re not pressuring me to go to Rivendell, but...I still can’t sign this.

“The way Balin explained it to me,” Bilbo continued, avoiding Thorin’s painfully intense gaze, “is that it’s unbreakable - it’s basically marriage, without the ceremony. And things are just - so uncertain right now.” Bilbo gestured with his hands as he spoke, lips twisting wryly as his eyes prickled. “You’re leaving, and I don’t - I don’t know.”

Bilbo cut himself off, voice breaking as his eyes filled with tears. He did not even see Thorin move until the man had his arms around Bilbo, squeezing him tightly.

“What if you don’t come back?” Bilbo whispered, turning to press his face into Thorin’s shoulder.

“Shh,” Thorin murmured, stroking his fingers through Bilbo’s curls. “Don’t say this.”

When Bilbo finally pulled away, his eyes were puffy and red, and Thorin’s shirt was soaked with tears.

“I - I have to go explain everything to Frodo,” Bilbo said lamely. He hated himself for keeping the boy in the dark for so long - instead of doing his job as a guardian, he had locked himself in his room. It reminded Bilbo far too much of his old self, when Frodo had first arrived.

A lonely, isolated bachelor, Bilbo had been entirely unprepared to take in an orphaned child. Years of being alone after his parents’ deaths had left Bilbo unsociable and selfish, almost completely ignoring the needs of a quiet, easily overlooked Frodo.

Taking Frodo in had changed Bilbo in so many ways, and had enriched his life. Though he would trade this life they had built to having Drogo and Prim back in a heartbeat, they were both incredibly happy.

Thorin pulled Bilbo in for one last hug, pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s.

“I will find you,” he swore. “When it is done. If I am welcome.”

“You’re always welcome, Thorin,” Bilbo promised, blinking against a fresh influx of tears. “Always.”

 

Dís, Eru bless her, had taken the liberty of explaining some things to Frodo. She told him none of them had seen their family members for years, and now that they were back together, they were going to find their home.

She had breathlessly managed three upset children, all the while patiently allowing an unaware Bilbo to make his important decisions in peace.

“Dís, I can’t thank you enough,” Bilbo said, hugging the woman tightly as she explained what had happened in his absence.

“We’re family,” she said as they pulled apart, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “Even if you didn’t say yes.”

“How - how did you…?” Bilbo sighed, laughing dryly at Dís’ perception.

“He doesn’t blame you,” she said comfortingly, leaving to finish her own packing.

“Frodo?” Bilbo called softly as he pushed open the door.

The boy was lying on his bed, clutching his favourite teddy bear to his chest. Closing the door, Bilbo carefully padded over, sitting by Frodo’s head and stroking the boy’s hair.

“I wish they didn’t have to go,” Frodo said after long moments of silence only interrupted by his sniffling.

“I know, my lad,” Bilbo said. “But imagine being in their situation - what if someone took Bag End from us, and made us go live in a country where we don’t even understand the language?”

“I know,” Frodo murmured, squeezing his bear even tighter. “I’m just gonna miss them.”

BIlbo had braced himself for yelling and crying, maybe even Frodo begging to go with them - though the boy had no idea that is what Gandalf intended. But Bilbo should have known better than to expect such things; Frodo had always been a perceptive child, almost too wise for his young age.

 

Bilbo woke early in the morning, preparing a hearty breakfast for his departing guests. He felt terrible for the night before - distracted as he had been, Bombur had taken over cooking for everyone.

Belladonna was likely turning over in her grave!

The large group was unusually quiet, quieted by what lay ahead. Fíli, Kíli, and Frodo filled the silence, at least, promising to exchange letters  _ every day _ . When Bilbo had dared to explain that such a thing was not possible - each letter would take  _ weeks  _ to arrive, assuming it even had a place to arrive! - Dís had quickly silenced him with a light kick under the table.

Cowardly as it may be, Bilbo had valiantly avoided Thorin. Something he sincerely regretted when it was time to finally leave, the street of Bagshot Row lined with enough cabs to fit the fourteen-large party.

Fíli managed to hold back his tears as he hugged Frodo goodbye, Kíli allowing a few to run down his cheeks. 

Bilbo clasped the new arrivals’ elbows in the traditional Ereborean custom, though he gave his Durins all tight hugs.

“Thank you for everything,” Dís said. “Words cannot describe what you have done for us.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Bilbo chastised playfully. “Just keep  _ him  _ in line, and we’re even.”

Dís laughed heartily. “I can’t make any promises,” she warned. “You know how he is!”

Bilbo chuckled, watching wistfully as the woman tugged her sons towards their cab.

“Bilbo.”

The man jumped at his name, whirling around, only to come face-to-face with Thorin.

“Ah, Thorin!” he exclaimed nervously. “I didn’t see you there!”

“I say goodbye now,” the taller man deadpanned. 

“”Right. Well, um,” Bilbo shifted awkwardly, unsure of the protocol. But when Thorin stuck out his hand, the Englishman found he could not accept. Instead he lurched forwards on the tips of his toes, throwing his arms around Thorin’s neck. The man responded immediately, not hesitating to press his face into Bilbo’s curls.

“I love you so much,” Bilbo said. “I’ll miss you every day.”

“ Men lananubukhs astu,  sanâzyung,” Thorin murmured in response. Pressing their foreheads together, he added, “Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi ast. Mahal keep you safe.”

Finally tearing himself away, Thorin headed towards the car.

“Thorin!” Bilbo called, running down the front yard. As Thorin turned around, Bilbo grabbed his shirtfront. “After this is all over, you had better find me,” he demanded . “I have a contract to sign, after all.”

As the words slowly sunk in, Thorin grinned. Tugging on the fisted clothes, Bilbo pulled the taller man down, planting a firm kiss on his lips. “It’s not  _ goodbye _ \- only  _ I’ll see you later _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* don't kill me :D
> 
> Men lananubukhs astu - I love you  
> Sanâzyung - perfect (true/pure) love  
> Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi ast - May Mahal’s hammer shield you.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're starting here, please go back and read CHAPTER 27! Both have been posted today!

After all the cabs pulled away, walking back into Bag End was harder than Bilbo would have ever imagined. Frodo immediately ran to his room to have some time to himself, leaving Bilbo all alone in the too-quiet hallway.

Bag End had never felt this empty since Bilbo’s parents had passed away.

The Englishman tip-toed room to room, peeking in as though he expected to find everyone simply hiding behind the furniture, waiting to pop out and yell, “Surprise!”

After making himself some chamomile tea, Bilbo made his way to his private study, planning to immerse himself in some good, old fashioned writing therapy. But as he sat down in his favourite armchair, there, atop his desk, was the contract.

It was turned to the last page, and Bilbo’s eyes were automatically drawn to the bottom.  _ Thorin Durin _ was signed in the space beside  _ proposing bridegroom _ . Thorin’s signature was printed very carefully, with no fancy flourishes or cursive script. Plain and straight-forward.

It sent a sharp pain straight to Bilbo’s chest.

Bilbo did not have to wonder how it got here for long - only Gandalf would be so manipulative.

Damn him.

It was  _ working _ .

 

Bilbo paced back and forth in his study, reminding himself of all the reasons he had refused to go.

First and foremost, there was Frodo. In spite of Gandalf’s claims of the opposite, taking him to a foreign land just did not seem safe. Not to mention the potential trauma of uprooting him in such a way. Bilbo did not even know how long they would be there!

And when Rorimac got a whiff of this - oh, sweet Yavanna. He would take it to his lawyers immediately, claiming Bilbo was clearly unfit. It was something Bilbo just could not risk.

And there was Lobelia - she forever had her eyes set on Bag End. There had always been a Baggins in Bag End, and Bilbo refused to allow a  _ Bracegirdle _ to get her grubby, greedy hands on his home.

“Right.” Bilbo nodded to himself, assured by his own reasoning. “It’s settled, then.”

But as Bilbo sat down once more, he was decidedly _ not  _ assured. Now that the stress and panic of an unexpected proposal were gone, his reasons seemed far less sound.

Gandalf had said people would come after them...and as much as Bilbo resented the old man’s meddling, he had to admit Gandalf was rarely wrong. Bilbo’s stomach churned at the mere thought. What would they do to him, to Frodo, if they were found? Seeing as they had no problem with burning an apartment down, one they had hoped was filled with a  _ family _ … Bilbo gulped.

He always swore he would put Frodo’s interests before his own. Yet, was that what he was doing right now? Or was he letting fear control him?

Bag End meant nothing compared to Frodo’s life. He would gladly sign it away without a second thought, if it meant Frodo was safe.

As for Rorimac, Bilbo’s lawyer had assured him numerous times that the man had absolutely no case.

His lawyer - of course!

Bilbo patted his pockets, pulling out his phone. He dialled the familiar number, fingers tapping against his thigh impatiently.

After his parents had died, and greedy relatives pounced on Bag End, Bilbo had learned a lawyer was unfortunately necessary. He had kept Faramir on retainer all these years; the man had been incredibly helpful after Prim and Drogo’s deaths.

As Faramir answered the phone, Bilbo immediately asked, “Can I take Frodo out of the country?” 

“As in a vacation?”

“Yes, exactly!” Bilbo cried, cursing himself for not thinking of this sooner. “On a vacation to - well, that’s not important. But it’s off the continent. Is there some law, or - or _ anything _ that is preventing me from doing so?”

“No, none at all, so long as he has a valid passport.” 

“So this isn’t something that Rorimac could ever use against me in court?”

“Despite Mr. Brandybuck’s wish, you are Frodo’s legal guardian. He has no case against you. And as Frodo’s guardian, you are completely within your rights to take him on vacation, as you see fit.”

“Great!” Bilbo exclaimed in breathless excitement. “Then - well, I’ll let you know. We’re going on vacation, right now! I intend to come back, alive and hale, so don’t let my relatives think they can seize my possessions!”

“Of course, Mr. Baggins, but -”

“I’ll leave a key under the mat, if you could please retrieve it! I’m afraid we’re in a terrible rush, I’ll need you to find someone to come in, perhaps once a week, for cleaning!”

“I’ll get right on it, Mr. Baggins.”

Bilbo ran from the study, taking the stairs two at a time. He really needed to work on his cardiovascular health - he was all but panting into the receiver as he reached the top step. “Thank you! And for Eru’s sake, keep Lobelia away!”

Grinning, he hung up the phone and threw open Frodo’s door.

“Frodo!” he yelled, startling the boy cuddled in his bed. “If you could join Fíli and Kíli, would you?”   
“What?” Frodo asked, rubbing his eyes.

“We can go with them - you and I, if we leave  _ right now _ , we can go with the Durins.”

“What!” Frodo repeated, jumping off his bed as he yelled.

“But it means leaving home - not forever, I promise, but for a while. It may be a really, really long time before we come back.”

“I wanna go! Please, Uncle Bilbo!”

“Frodo,” Bilbo sighed, kneeling before his ward. “Do you understand what this means - leaving home? Possibly for many months? ”

“You’ll be with me, right?” Frodo asked. Bilbo nodded immediately, opening his mouth to reassure the boy, only to be interrupted. “Then I am home.”

“Oh, Frodo, my sweet boy.” Bilbo pulled his ward in for a tight hug before jumping up. “Hurry - pack your things!”

 

Thorin stood on the ferry, staring longingly at the country he was about to leave. He had never considered England his home, and now he could hardly bear to go.

Dís came up beside him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “You’ll see him again,” she said.

“Mahal willing,” Thorin added under his breath.

He almost wished he did not know his One at all, so he did not have to know this pain. But the thought was selfish; they had many beautiful memories together, memories Thorin would always cherish. And every night he went to sleep, alone, he would be comforted with the knowledge that Bilbo was safe and happy. Not all were so lucky, his sister included.

But even that knowledge could not alleviate his suffering, especially not when it was so fresh. He missed Bilbo with every fibre of his being - in fact, he could swear he could still hear Bilbo’s voice.

_ “Wait! We’re coming, too!” _

Dís ran to the edge of the ferry, looking back at her brother with sparkling eyes and a wide grin. “Thorin, look!” she exclaimed, practically jumping up and down.

Thorin rushed forward, peering at the scene before him. The entryway was mostly empty, save for a small figure … no, for _two_ figures, running towards the soon-to-depart ferry.

Thorin would recognize those shining, golden curls anywhere.

“Bilbo!” he yelled before running towards the ramp. Bilbo and Frodo struggled up, Frodo apparently overcoming his fear of water temporarily as he raced ahead, leaving his uncle struggling with far too much luggage.

Thorin ran a hand through Frodo’s messy curls as he passed by, pointing the boy towards Dís. She would take him straight to Fíli and Kíli. Bilbo made it on deck before Thorin could even make it to the ramp, dropping all his luggage and racing towards him. As Bilbo jumped into his arms, Thorin spun the man around, holding his beloved close.

“Ghivashel, what are you doing here?” he asked anxiously.

Bilbo grinned, hazel eyes sparkling dangerously. “I signed it!” he exclaimed. “I signed the contract!”

Wriggling out of Thorin’s tight grasp, Bilbo pulled a crinkled mess of paperwork from his back pocket. He smiled sheepishly at the mess, though Thorin could not even be mad the sacred document had been so marred. He did not care, so long as it was signed.

Bilbo rifled through the papers, finally pointing at the bottom of the last page. “There! Look!”

The signature was hardly legible to Thorin’s eyes, but he would take Bilbo’s word.

“You are coming?” he asked, holding Bilbo’s cheeks as he searched the man’s face, desperately afraid there was some trick. “You will marry me?”

“Yes, yes!” Bilbo cried, laughing as Thorin covered his lips in a desperate kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this story is finished already! I started way back in August, and it's been a crazy ride.  
> Thank you soo much to everyone who's read, commented, and left kudos. A special thanks to those who have been here from the start, those who left suggestions when I had no idea where to take this, and those who have commented every single chapter!  
> As you know, this story has a sequel planned. However, I have not yet started on it. I will be taking a break from this AU and working on other stories I have not yet had the time to truly focus on. In the meantime, I have a completed story I will be posting, set during the quest and post-BOTFA, dealing with Dwarvish superstitions (and Bilbo's eternal suffering because of it) as Thorin and Bilbo's relationship develops. So if you enjoyed this fic, I would suggest you guys stick around for that one :) The first chapter will be posted Sunday!  
> Any updates I have for the sequel will be posted on my tumblr (same name) under the tag teachmeyourways.  
> Again - thanks for sticking around for this madness, and I sincerely hope you all enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr under the same name, always looking to talk Bagginshield :)


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